Chapter Text
Ed didn’t dare try to visit Hohenheim on campus. It was much too risky to parade someone that looked like Mustang through the University and in front of so many important and dangerous people.
And many were dangerous. The fact that they made menial wages teaching physics or literature did not detract from that. Many were involved in circles, dark societies that Hohenheim had both warned Edward of and forbidden him to associate with.
Not that Ed was interested in avoiding anything Hohenheim forbade him to do, but dark societies weren’t something he was too keen on involving himself in.
Well, with the exception of any society aiming to reach his own world, but maybe Mustang could help him with that.
Ed risked a glimpse at the man beside him. He was still there, so different from the Colonel—no, General? Wasn’t he a General now? —Ed had left on the side of the road, but still so familiar. After questioning every memory and every thought for the past two years, Ed felt a little less crazy at the reassurance.
A thousand questions burned on his tongue, but the streets of Munich were not the place for conversation like that, especially in “English,” and Ed doubted Mustang could speak German. Ed had learned that you had to be careful what you said and how you said it here, and he wasn’t willing to risk being overheard by the wrong people to sate his curiosity at the moment. Mustang seemed to take the hint as well, because he kept his head down and his mouth closed.
Another casual glance over Ed’s shoulder revealed the two men from the alleyway were nowhere in sight, but somehow Ed didn’t find that comforting.
Paranoia at its finest.
Ed successfully dodged both the baker and his wife, managed the stairs, then let himself into Hohenheim’s apartment, Mustang slipping in behind him. The overwhelming scent of cologne grounded him, calming the buzz in his head, the fear fluttering in his chest. He may have disliked Hohenheim, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t comfort in familiarity.
He turned to face Mustang . . .
And all his questions left him.
What did you say to someone that had been dead?
Ed had never imagined in a thousand years that Mustang would wind up here. The Mustang from his world, not one of the doppelgangers of this one.
And maybe a small, vicious part of himself knew he’d never see Mustang or anyone from home ever again.
Sudden tears stung his eyes and he turned to the tiny kitchenette to blink them away. “Tea?”
He heard Mustang shuffle behind him. “Have anything stronger?”
“Tap water.”
Mustang snorted. “Tea would be nice.”
Ed went through the motions of preparing the hot drink, putting on the kettle and scraping tea leaves from the bottom of the tin—Hohenheim never forgot to buy tea. What had the idiot so distracted that he forgot his one simple pleasure? Ed would have to pick some up from the market tomorrow along with Alfons’ sugar.
Not to be nice or anything. He just wanted tea when he had to visit.
Finished with preparations, Ed stared at the kettle. He wasn’t sure why, except that maybe some things were easier to ask without eye contact. “How is . . . everyone?”
Al, ask about Al.
“Everyone is doing well,” Mustang said, coming up to lean on the counter beside him.
“Tell me about Al,” Ed said, trying not to sound desperate even if he was. “What does he do? Is he back in Resembool?”
Mustang didn’t respond for a beat too long and Ed looked at him, looked at the way his expression became too careful. “He’s doing really well. He’s grown a lot just in this last year.”
Ed frowned. Al should have been almost nineteen. Maybe the Gate screwed with his development, but he shouldn’t be growing that much. It was a weird thing to comment on.
“A boy named Russel Tringham found him in the underground city and brought him to the hospital. After recuperating in Resembool at the Rockbell establishment and spending some time with Mrs. Curtis, Alphonse decided it was time to go out and look for you.”
Ed’s hands gripped the counter so hard the wood creaked.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
On the one hand, he didn’t want Alphonse to waste his time looking for him. He wanted Al to enjoy his life, to enjoy the body he’d been without for so many years. Ed wanted his little brother to grow up, maybe get married and have kids and cats and do all the things he’d dreamed of.
On the other hand, Ed had to admit that it was a comfort not to be forgotten.
“Well,” Ed said with a tight, bitter smile. “I doubt he’ll think to look here.”
Mustang snorted.
“Fullmetal,” he began slowly, sobering. “You said this is the other side of the Gate. What does that mean?”
Ed couldn’t say that he knew Mustang well—in fact, he’d bet Hawkeye was the only living person that could claim as much—but he could have sworn he detected a hint of fear in his voice, a foreboding.
Ed couldn’t blame him. Even if Mustang’s introduction to this world had been smoother than Ed’s, it would still be hellacious to come to terms with being trapped here.
There had been a time, one brief window, that Ed might have turned to Mustang for reassurance in a situation like this. Ed might have asked him what they should do, might have admitted he was scared and inept and let Mustang take charge of the whole thing. It would be nice to hand the reins over to someone else, someone that he might have looked up to and trusted.
But those days were long past now. Ed was the “expert” here, and though he had been an adult since the day his mother had died, he was really starting to feel the compounded weight of it all bearing down on his weary shoulders. He was tired. Tired of being alone, tired of being afraid, tired of fighting a losing battle.
But was there really a choice?
He sighed and poured the tea and attempted to explain to Mustang how the Gate worked. Most of his information came from Hohenheim, and though he wasn’t sure if the old man’s theories were accurate, it wasn’t like Ed had any better ideas.
“So . . .” Mustang began, swirling his tea. “We’re stuck here?”
Mustang had always been big to Ed. Not necessarily in height, but in a larger-than-life sort of way. Mustang was all smooth bravado and endless charisma. In a number of ways, he had towered over Ed since the day he’d yanked him out of that wheelchair a lifetime ago with demands that he keep moving forward.
Now the man was slouched against the kitchen counter, shoulders curled and face hollowed. This was not the same Mustang Ed had left on that bridge over two years ago.
What was it about this world that sucked the life out of you?
“Not yet,” Ed answered. He opened his mouth to keep going, then stopped.
Rocketry . . . it sounded so silly now, so naive; a child’s hope, little more than a delusional last-ditch effort. How could a rocket travel to an alternate universe? Ed had “read” the work of Herschel, Shapely, and Hubble. The galaxy was huge. Theorized to be endless. Even if Al was only a world away — even as close as the moon — they couldn’t even get a rocket to stay airborne a whole two minutes, much less carry Ed there.
The more he thought about it, the more it felt like a fool’s dream. Maybe that’s why Hohenheim had encouraged him to pursue rocketry in the first place. It was an easy distraction that would keep him out of trouble and out of the old man’s hair. That would be just like him, wouldn’t it? Maybe it was delusional, and maybe Ed was delusional. Alfons was probably right after all.
See, this was why he didn’t like to think about things.
“Fullmetal?”
Ed twitched, tea sloshing over the edge of his cup to drip down to the kitchen counter. He looked at Mustang. “What?”
“Was there more to that?”
Ed blinked, once again abruptly aware that he and Roy Mustang were in Hohenheim’s kitchen in a parallel universe having tea .
Was he actually awake right now?
“I believe so,” Mustang answered, and Ed only then realized he’d asked it aloud. “Unless we’re both dreaming.” He brought the tea to his lips, but Ed noticed his other hand curl uncomfortably around his stomach.
Visions of shootouts and assassinations raced across his mind’s eye, and he wondered with a grimace if any of them were true.
Ed really needed to get out of his head.
“How . . . how did it happen?” he asked, trying to be delicate and failing.
Mustang’s eye narrowed almost imperceptibly. He seemed to consider a moment, like he wasn’t sure if Ed was ready for the answer. “I was shot.”
“That’s what you said, but who shot you? How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know who shot me. I didn’t get much of a look at him.”
“How did it happen?”
Mustang had always kept a tight seal on his thoughts and emotions. For years, Ed had been convinced that the Colonel was some of the worst of what the world had to offer; cold, self-absorbed, ruthless, merciless in his many pursuits of what suited him. Part of that was immaturity on Ed’s part, and part of that was just how good Mustang was at the game.
But Ed saw that careful mask slip, something glimmering in his black eye too far from confident and too close to fear.
What had him so scared?
“I don’t—”
Thunk thunk thunk.
Ed and Mustang both jumped, Ed’s teacup clanking hard against his sleeved metal fingers.
Who would be knocking on Hohenheim’s door at this hour of the day?
Ed hesitated. Hohenheim never wanted Ed to reveal his presence in the apartment during his stay, and never cared to explain why. It wasn’t the fact that he was hiding Edward—though of course, his limbs were something no one but Alfons was allowed to know about—because when Ed was finally well enough to make outings, Hohenheim never failed to introduce Ed as his son, much to Ed’s chagrin.
Just what kind of unsavory people did Hohenheim give his address to?
The men from the alleyway crossed his mind, but it seemed that some of Ed’s hotheadedness from earlier hadn’t worn off, because he set his teacup down and stalked to the door. He unlocked it in one quick motion, opening it just enough to be impolite, using his body to block the line of sight into the room.
Well, as much as his stature would allow.
Not that he wasn’t tall enough or anything.
The man in the hallway blinked in surprise before he recovered. “Good afternoon, boy. Is Professor Hohenheim in?”
Boy? The man was older than Ed by five years, maybe . Hardly old enough to go around calling him “boy.” Ed frowned. “No. Who are you?”
The man smiled at him and adjusted the lapels of his wool coat. The garment looked expensive and ill-fitting; probably a hand-me-down from a better time. Of course, it wasn’t like Ed had any room to talk on that front as he was currently being swallowed by Hohenheim’s overcoat. As for the man, he had an almost sickly look to him; skin sallow and thin, his mousy hair neatly trimmed but hanging limp against his forehead. Despite that, his gray eyes were piercingly bright.
He tipped his fedora. “How rude of me. I’m Ian Kepler, with the Munich Observer . I was hoping to invite the good professor to our panel tomorrow night.” He offered Ed a leaflet from the stack under his arms. “Van’s son, I presume?”
Ed’s suspicion spiked tenfold, but he resisted the urge to look behind the door at Mustang; firstly, to not give the man away, and secondly because Mustang probably didn’t speak two words of German and would have no idea what they were talking about anyway. “Do I know you?”
“I doubt that,” Kepler smiled. “It is my business to be informed. Perhaps you would be interested in attending our panel as well? We are always looking for bright young minds to recruit to the Society.”
Society?
Well, now Ed was interested.
Paranoid, but interested.
His day seemed to have a running theme.
“Let me guess: the Thule Society?”
Kepler’s eyes twinkled with pride. “So you’ve heard of us! Our numbers have waned over the years, but we are making a promising recovery with even more members than before! The German people are interested in progress, and the Thule Society has its sights set on the future.”
It sounded like a sales pitch if Ed had ever heard one, but Ed’s interests were entirely personal. He examined the flier in his hand, the ink smudging under his flesh thumbpad. He recognized most of the symbols. “Seven o’clock at the Cuvilliés Theatre?”
“In the green room. I trust you will be there, young Hohenheim?”
Ed had to choke back a heated retort. He did not need to make the man curious as to why his last name might be different from Hohenheim’s. The answer was simple enough, but one question always led to more, and any sort of interest aimed at him was more than he needed.
“Of course,” he agreed instead, the doorknob creaking under his metal hand.
“Your hand looks funny.”
Ed did a double-take.
There behind the tails of Kepler’s coat stood a little girl. Her eyes were big and blue and curious, mousy hair curled into tight ringlets and spilling over her small green overcoat. Or was it a pea coat? Ed didn’t know anything about women’s fashion. She looked to be about six; young enough to say whatever popped into her head with complete and utter confidence. There was something familiar about her, but Ed couldn’t quite place it. Maybe he’d seen her around some of Hohenheim’s crowd.
Ed followed her gaze and saw what had caught her attention; his flesh-colored faux skin wrinkling strangely around the doorknob and his fingertips, like he was some lizard about to slough his outer layer.
Ed immediately loosened his grip, the sleeve relaxing into something more natural-looking.
“Don’t be rude, Sisi,” Kepler admonished, but his eyes slid to Ed’s hand before going back to his face. “I apologize, you know how children are.”
Ed shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, I’ll pass this along to Hohenheim.”
Kepler looked like he was about to ask something, but stopped. At least the man knew a dismissal when he heard one. “Please do. I hope to see you both at the panel! Come along, Sisi.”
Sisi resisted her father’s guiding hand as he tried to lead her back down the hall. Her gaze was clear in only the way a child’s could be, like those blue eyes could see right through him. “What’s your first name?”
Ed felt like he was sitting in one of the military’s interrogation rooms with a light to his eyes and an old detective across the desk demanding answers.
He was instead hiding in his father’s doorway two feet from some little gremlin asking his name.
He made two mental laps to see if there was any harm in giving his first name and decided there shouldn’t be any. “Edward. I like your dress.” Because there was never any harm in flattery.
Sisi beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Edward.”
Kepler smiled. “Alright Sisi, let’s leave Mr. Edward be now. Thank you for your time.”
And on that note, the two headed down the hall, Sisi giving him a small wave as they disappeared down the stairs leading to the bakery below.
Ed watched the empty hall for a moment, eyes peeled for anything suspicious before he ducked back into Hohenheim’s apartment and shut the door.
Mustang was right where Ed had left him, teacup still in hand. His fingers were tighter around the porcelain handle, betraying his own unease. Ed wondered if he’d always been this nervous or if that was just from his encounters with this world. “What was that?” he asked, his tone guarded.
Ed glanced at the flyer in his hand and set it on the countertop. “An invitation. The local cult is recruiting.” Ed looked at Mustang, once more noting his disheveled and grimy appearance with a grimace. “Look, you should get cleaned up. I’ll find you a shirt or something and throw some food together. You look like a starved dog.”
Mustang’s eye lighted with interest. “I feel like a starved dog. And then . . . you’ll explain everything?”
“You first.”
Mustang nodded, sliding the flyer towards himself and examining the words that Ed could barely read himself. “The local cult, huh?” He smirked, and for a moment, Ed was twelve and in Mustang’s office and it was like they weren’t trapped worlds away from home. “I’ve always wanted to join a cult.”