Chapter Text
Al isn’t going to make it.
Ed has been watching him all afternoon, as worry slowly eats a hole in his stomach. His little brother is growing paler by the minute, his breaths becoming sharper and more laborious.
If only they could slip away, out of the command center—just long enough for Al to have a quick drink.
But Mustang, that sadist, has practically been holding them hostage since this morning. Something about routine paperwork and updates and some other stuff Ed didn’t listen to. Since they arrived, they’ve been under the watchful eye of either the bastard himself or Lieutenant Hawkeye.
Al started the day just fine. A little moody, but not in desperate need—not like now. His head sways and bows onto his chest like he's having trouble staying awake.
There's no precise timeline they can go by, of when he has to feed. It's different every time. Today, Ed fears Al’s lethargy will give way to uncontrollable hunger.
He puts his hand on Al’s and squeezes, trying to ask without words. You okay?
Al’s answering squeeze is weak, his thin fingers trembling. It’s not the confident assurance Ed was hoping for.
He has to get Al out of there.
…
It’s a little funny, he admits to himself, that his age and attitude toward the Colonel allows—unofficially, if not officially—for this kind of odd behavior.
“We’ll be back.”
“Unfortunately, Fullmetal, we’re not finished yet.”
“I just said we’ll be back. We’re going to the bathroom.”
“Both of you? At the same time.”
“Mind your own business.”
“As my subordinate, you are my business.”
“Bye!”
Who else could have gotten away with that?
Leaving Command is out of the question—Mustang will send his flunkies after them in minutes. They just need a quiet place.
Quickly, because Al is swaying like a drunk. A drunk twelve year old.
A utility closet is all he can find. Full of brooms and mops and buckets, barely large enough for two boys.
Ed bolts the door with hasty alchemy and turns to Al, who is backed against a wall for support, already starting to slide to the floor.
“Hey.” Ed cradles his face, tries to support him as he lands on the floor, limbs and head lolling like a floppy, oversized doll. “You still with me?”
Al doesn’t respond. He’s deathly pale. When Ed lifts an eyelid, his pupils are huge and dark and unresponsive.
Ed curses under his breath and claps his hands, praying to no one that the sounds and the flashes of light from the closet go unnoticed.
His automail elongates into a blade, wicked long and razor sharp.
They don’t have time to be delicate, so he chooses a spot on his wrist. It’s calloused in layers of scar tissue, but the pulse under it is strong. A few wincing slices follow, and his blood is flowing.
“Here, Al.” He tips his brother’s head back, letting his wrist drip into Al’s mouth.
Al twitches, swallowing reflexively. He blinks rapidly, a hum building in the back of his throat.
“Hey.” Ed tries to catch his eye, smile at him. “There you are.”
Al isn’t there, though, not all the way. When he’s this hungry, he’s unpredictable—which is what makes Ed so nervous, feeding him here in a public building with little to no privacy.
His pupils dilate to pinpoints as he processes the blood, the life spilling into his mouth. He grabs Ed’s wrist with rough hands, shoving it more securely between his lips. His teeth and tongue scrape messy over the wound, lapping up every drop.
Ed manages to condense his cries into a quiet hiss of pain.
He knows not to take it personally. Al is starved, and right now all he can see in Ed is the nourishment that will bring him back to life.
He’ll be back to himself later, when there’s blood in his brain again.
Ed trusts him—Al’s good at what he does. He knows how much he can drink now; there’s little to no chance of him losing control. Not like that first time.
Ed grits his teeth and tries not to think about that night, the night he nearly lost everything—even his life.
Screams of pain. A missing leg. A horrific, twisted mass of limbs and bones. Al’s bloodless corpse, whiter than paper, whiter than snow…
A bloodstained hand, jostling Al’s cheek. His eyes blinking open, vacant still as Ed pulled him into a hug…
Then teeth, and more blood, and more pain, and pleas to stop, and cries for help, and blackening vision…
Al gasps and moans, drinking from Ed with hard, painful pulls.
“Al, shh—ow. Stay quiet, okay? We’re in public. People might hear.”
The doorknob rattles.
Ed curses again. Without his hand free, he can’t transmute a stronger lock on the door.
“Edward? Is everything all right?”
He braces his foot against the door and doesn’t answer.
Al’s grip tightens, locking around his wrist like a cuff.
Black spots dance on the edge of Ed’s vision. “Al, slow down, please.” A frantic whisper. “Please tell me you can hear me.”
Several things happen at once. Al sucks too hard, which invites the black spots pulsing in Ed’s eyes to spread. The door opens, and light floods in, revealing the Elrics’ hunched forms to an unknown member of the military. And Al’s steady drinking stutters, overwhelmed by the flurry of sensations, of activity.
“Edward?” The voice is female, calm yet rising. “Alphonse, what are you—”
A gasp. Then—“Step away from him!”
He hears a click. His brain is sticky and slow, but still able to identify the noise as the safety of her handgun.
That single sound is enough to get him moving. He rises to a crouch, shielding as much of Al as he can from the Lieutenant. “Don’t,” he slurs. “‘S just Al.”
Ed is too woozy to parse what is going through Riza Hawkeye’s mind. Whatever she thinks has happened to Al, she can’t be allowed to hurt him.
“Put your hands in the air. Step away.”
Al doesn’t respond. He’s wholly focused once more on the nourishment, the life he’s drinking from Ed.
Hawkeye takes a step forward, the barrel of her gun getting too close to Al for Ed’s comfort. He raises his free hand, the automail brushing against her gun fearlessly. “Stop. Pl’s. He’s okay.”
“Edward, you’re bleed—” She gasps with the realization of exactly what Al is doing.
“S’almost done. Give ‘im a minute.”
“But—”
“Al.” Ed is pleading now, the blood loss taking a heavy toll on his speech. “Can y’stop?”
And then he’s tipping, the world spinning under him. A dull thud cuts through his body as he lands on his butt.
“Brother?”
The word is music to Ed’s ears.
He smiles sloppily, fighting the haze that threatens his vision. “Hey, Al.”
“Step away, Alphonse.” Hawkeye’s voice has never wavered like this. Of course, she’s never seen a subordinate bleeding into his brother’s mouth, either.
“He’s f’ne,” Ed tries to say, his head swaying dangerously from side to side.
Al whimpers behind him. “Please don’t shoot.” Then, to Ed—“Brother, sit back. You’re going to faint.”
Ed struggles to focus on a blurry picture of Al’s bloody mouth, his worried eyes. “M’fine. M’okay.” He turns as much as he can, causing another round of black to dance across Hawkeye, who has her gun trained on Al.
“I said, ” she repeats, her firm tone shaking, “Step away from him.”
“Lieutenant,” Al says, voice high and fearful. “He needs help. I have to help him.” His hand wraps around Ed’s neck as it lolls to one side. “Stay with me, brother.”
“Alphonse, what are you doing to him?”
Ed breathes deep, fighting against the wave of unconsciousness that threatens to engulf him. “He was feeding. It’s something he has to do.”
“Feeding?” Hawkeye repeats faintly. “Feeding on…” She trails off, processing, but Ed’s attention has already left her, wandered back to Al, who seems to have drunk enough to be himself again.
Al pats Ed’s cheek, examining his face. “I took too much, didn’t I?”
He sounds like he’s about to cry. Ed can tell he’s beating himself up, inside.
“No.” Ed makes his best effort to smile at Al, to wipe the guilt off his face. “You’re fine. I just…need to sit down for a little bit.”
“Okay.” Al guides Edward to the floor, hands gentle but trembling.
Hawkeye hasn’t moved, though. The firearm from her shoulder holster still points at Alphonse.
“Lieutenant,” Ed says groggily. “Could you take your gun off my brother, please? He’s not going to hurt anyone.”
“Edward, you’re bleeding.” Her voice is twinged with a tiny bit of uncertainty. “ You’re hurt. I have to be sure.”
“ I’m sure, okay?” Anger forces his dizziness down, and he glares clear-eyed up at her, with a cold expression he usually reserves just for the Colonel. “Al isn’t a danger to anyone. The only one he feeds from is me. And he’s done now.”
“What…” she trails off, mouthing silently.
Ed has never seen Hawkeye speechless before.
Finally she manages to spit out a strangled question. “What is—what’s wrong with him?”
Hurt spills over Al’s face. His lower lip trembles.
Ed grips his brother’s hand as tightly as his quivering muscles will allow. “It’s a long story. Put away your gun and we’ll tell you.”