The Deal

Alphonse wasn’t picky when it came to people. One thing he’d learned and come to appreciate about his travels with Ed was that people were more fun when they were different. It was why, despite how much of an absolute headache he was, he loved spending time with his brother and would have enjoyed it even if they weren’t related. It was why, despite his stoicism, prickliness, and aloof demeanor, Alphonse liked Roy Mustang.

Clinging to Roy had many benefits, he mused on the walk up the grassy hill. The night was chilly - or maybe it was fine, and he was still unused to feeling something other than numbness - and he was shivering. He mitigated this by pulling the blanket and jacket he was wrapped in higher on his shoulders, tucking his limbs as close to his walking chauffeur as possible. In the darkness of Roy’s arms, he felt safe enough to think about the day’s events and where they landed. He could process some of the grief he’d been dealing with his whole life but in an entirely human way. 

Crying had never felt so good.

In the distance he could hear birds and crickets, hemming and hawing in the dance of life, and the trees joined in every so often. His face was warm but sensitive, and the breeze felt simultaneously too rough and just right. Roy's skin was warm and soft and he smelled like ash, sweat, and dirt, with a faint underlying sweetness. The sweetness was stronger up his jaw, but Alphonse still enjoyed the phantom scent near his shoulder. 

He smelled like Al felt. Al's body was his 'sweet scent,' despite everything that had happened in the last thirty-six hours weighing his limbs down like lead. He was soul-tired, but his world was full of sensation now; he could smell and taste the grass and the wind that carried damp dirt and muddy water. He could feel his stomach rumble and his shoulder itch from the tag on Roy's jacket.

He could blink.

He could do all the things he’d been denied for years. Processing that he was alive was going to take a long time - definitely more than the hour or two that he'd had his body - and physical therapy was a must, his bony limbs jagged and sharp when they should be soft and rounded. But he was alive and real and not a figment of his brother’s imagination. He had a real body.

He felt like Pinnochio. 

Alphonse’s arms tightened around Roy’s neck at the reoccurring realization that he was alive, and one of the man’s large hands rubbed his back between his shoulder blades, soft and languid. He was too selfish to ask the man to stop. His hand, damaged as it was, felt warm, and it cut through the ice in the air better than the two layers he’d bundled up in, causing chill bumps to erupt down his arms. He never thought he’d miss chill bumps. 

Enjoying the warmth, Al mused that didn’t think the Colonel had it in him - affection wasn’t something anyone would normally think of when one thought of Roy Mustang. The man was aloof, driven, and calculated. Everything he said was deliberate, whether that be devastating or corny. He was a dragon, and Al was under no delusions as to what his hoard consisted of. And yet, despite all of the cold-hearted delegation, they’d all begun to bond. He was holding Al and rubbing his back, and he and Ed had shared a moment back there. 

He knew Ed wouldn’t admit it without the help of some serious drugs, but he knew his brother. Ed was surly and prickly, but he trusted Colonel Mustang more than any other adult. Maybe even more than Teacher, if Al was honest with himself. Because for all Ed threw the Colonel’s name in the dirt, he went to Roy before anyone else. Roy barked at him when he was stupid and reckless but also showed pride whenever he did something worth praising, like beating him in chess for the first time. He made Edward feel like he was worth something, a task that Al couldn’t accomplish no matter how hard he tried. 

Alphonse was Ed’s little brother. He loved Edward and wanted to cheer him up, put him on a pedestal, and decorate him in gold. Of course. But Roy had no reason to. Roy was Ed’s Commanding Officer, who by rights didn’t have to give a crap about anyone under his command as long as he kept them alive. And yet, in spite of the red tape, Roy cared about them all in his unique way. 

Despite losing his dad, Alphonse couldn’t bring himself to be sadder than, say, when he lost his first cat - he'd cried just as messily. He’d lost his dad before, and while the grief had always been present and it hurt a little more right then, he wasn’t a stranger to his father’s absence. He’d also overheard Ed talking to Teacher about when Ed had found him at Mom's grave. Hohenheim wasn’t nice, even if he loved them. 

Roy maybe wasn't nice, not really, but he was kind. Kinder than Hohenheim.

He didn’t know what this meant. He didn’t know if they needed to talk, or if Ed was going to ignore everyone, or anything, really. But he didn’t care. At that moment, cradled in warmth and security, surrounded by his found family, he felt tired. He thought he'd be nervous to sleep for the first time in years, but oblivion welcomed him with careful and loving arms, like he'd found his way home after a long, arduous . . . 

///

“Would you like to hold a funeral?”

The words were said softly, but in the large and empty corridor, they echoed. Albus Dumbledore hadn’t paused in his measured steps down the expansive hallway, periwinkle robes whishing against the ground like a cloak of melodrama. There were no lights on inside the castle, and every painting they passed depicted a person or persons asleep in all manner of landscapes and rooms. A strange choice for decoration, but a far sight better than anything Alex Armstrong thought to build. 

Albus Dumbledore’s question was about the bastard Hohenheim, Ed deduced after he’d surfaced from the fog clouding his brain. The man’s body was still in that arena, smug even in death. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with it, though. Ed hated Hohenheim. The man had walked out on his family, let his wife die, let his kids get recruited by the military after some pretty shitty decisions, and then told Ed he was a coward. And it stung because it was true. 

Ed was a coward. He believed it to his bones. 

But then the bastard died on them. He just patted Ed’s head like he was some demented pet, hugged Al as though he’d never left to begin with, and then just fucking died. And Ed was pissed. At least no matter how shitty Mustang could be, he’d never leave them. Twice.  

Yet despite all of this, some part of him felt . . . sad. Grieved. He wouldn't ever know a life with Hohenheim as his family.

Scarily, another even smaller part of him felt relieved. At least they knew for an absolute, concrete fact that the man was dead and never coming back. They could stop wondering where he was, wondering if they’d run into him on the road, and wondering if he’d leave in the morning if he did see them again for any reason. 

In the face of all of these emotions, Ed didn’t know what to do, floundering for a direction to place his thoughts. Even thinking about it was more energy than he had. His last week had been nothing short of nightmarish, and now he was on another planet with wizards and witches, his boss, his teacher, and his little brother who had just gotten his own body back from Hell. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Hohenheim. Frustrated and on the verge of exhausted tears, Ed looked up at Mustang carrying Al for a quick distraction or some hint about how to handle the situation.

Mustang was already looking down at him, knowing, something soft in his usually blank eyes. Ed had seen the look before, back when Ed was gloating about beating him in their annual exam. He’d seen it every time he barged into the office in success, mission complete. Hell, the man even had the same look when he said goodbye to Ed on the eve of the Promised Day. 

Ed didn’t know what to do in the face of that look, though every time it was directed at him he invariably felt an iota better about whatever it was that plagued him and Al. Sometimes, to cope with the guilt-shame-pride-joy, he pissed Mustang off on purpose - and he never felt any better when he saw the warmth disappear, but at least it was back to normal.

“I think a cremation would be appropriate,” Mustang murmured, voice just as loud as Dumbledore’s but less echoey. Ed had never studied acoustics, but he guessed it was due to the depth of his voice. He wasn’t a tall guy (shut up Ed was going to get a growth spurt soon and he’d be taller than Mustang just fucking watch) but his voice was the deepest in his team. Ed suspected, not for the first time, that he deepened it on purpose to sound more mysterious.

“I am sure we can arrange something,” Dumbledore said. He stopped in front of a gargoyle in the shape of an eagle, hands gripping each other inside of his robe sleeves and smiling indulgently at them, pointy hat drooping like Ed's eyelids. 

“No need,” Mustang intercepted smoothly, and Ed spared a glance up, surprised at his adamant tone. “If you can just clear us a space that you don’t mind creating a fire on, I can take care of the rest.”

Yeah, that sounded cool. He didn’t think Hohenheim would mind going out like that, at any rate. 

“Very well, I will prepare a space in the ‘morrow,” Dumbledore promised. He turned to look at the gargoyle and said firmly, “Honey Fuzzies.” 

Ed’s jaw went slack when the gargoyle started moving immediately, politely bowing and hopping to the side to reveal a set of stairs. The only thing that comparatively came close to what he was witnessing right then was Al as a suit of armor: a body no longer available whose soul was bound to a material object. 

Forget Hohenheim, Ed wanted Mustang to fry him.

Dumbledore started climbing the stairs, fabric gripped by his hands and ankles for show. His shoes were slightly pointed and soft leather, a darker shade of blue compared to the rest of his outfit. His ankles were knobby with some varicose veins that crawled onto the bottom of his calves, disappearing into his robes. Ed guessed the guy was close to retirement. 

Teacher followed Dumbledore up the stairs first, quieter than Ed had ever seen her. He had almost forgotten she was there, solemn and contemplative as she was. He supposed that she had just as much to process about the day as the rest of them. Hohenheim had been her friend, he knew, recalling their familiarity with each other during the Promised Day.

Ed didn’t know what to think about that, either. Teacher had been the one to teach them about alchemy, and he knew she took some responsibility for his and Al’s unfortunate transmutation. She had been just as quiet following the day he and Al had admitted to what they'd done, what Ed had pushed Al to do. He would never forget how she had rejected them, at first. How every moment since then had been strained, a heavy ball of disappointment-regret-agony in all of their hearts. She had the same aura now, and Ed wondered what she was thinking, and if it had anything to do with Hohenheim. He wondered if they’d talked about him and his brother, kept tabs with each other, and he wasn’t numb enough to not feel the spark of anger that thought fanned in him.

Mustang followed Teacher, Al’s feet dangling and swaying with each step he took up the stairs. It almost would have looked comical if not for Al’s emaciated ankles and long toenails that spoke of neglect. He hated himself for what he’d done to Al, what Al was still dealing with, but the relief he felt at seeing flesh instead of metal never failed to leave him breathless, so he followed and watched bittersweetly.

The room they entered had a big oak desk in the center with two plush armchairs in front. It was reminiscent of Mustang’s office, just warm and clustered with strange artifacts and nicknacks that didn’t make much sense and moved about restlessly. There was a pile of ash under a large tree branch close to the window, too, and Mustang was eyeing it dubiously. Dumbledore had walked around his desk while they took in the room to sit in an ornate, golden-crusted chair that was more throne than office furniture. In the same movement, he’d pulled a stick from his robe sleeves and waved it. A chair identical to the pair of armchairs already there twisted into being, rising from the ground like a transmutation. 

Ed frowned. No transmutation array, no decomposed circle of matter, and no clap. There’d been no tell-tale sign of alchemical energy, either - the chair had just expanded into existence with no light shows or fanfare. 

He needed to learn what magic was and he needed to learn it yesterday. 

“I can conjure a bed for the young master if you wish,” Dumbledore said, gesturing to Mustang who was still standing. Mustang smiled politely - the fakest smile in his arsenal - and simply took a seat at the armchair closest to the door, settling Al across his lap and tucking his slack face back to his shoulder. Ed snorted at him, amused that he was being so careful, and took the chair next to them, eyes searching what little he could see of his brother for any new skin developments while they’d been outside. 

Teacher nabbed the seat next to him and Ed watched as she subtly winced upon finishing her squat down. So she’d been hurt. He would remember to force her to see a doctor soon, too, already prepared to force Mustang to go with him for their own injuries. Hopefully, she wouldn't be violent about it.

“So,” Dumbledore opened, smile wide and genuine. “What are your names?”

“Izumi Curtis,” Teacher offered when no one moved to speak. She'd sat back and crossed her arms, frowning in what had to be pain (and maybe a little bit of anger, she was Teacher).

“Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist,” Mustang said next, and Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. Ed wasn't sure why Mustang thought sharing his rank and title was important. They were in a world with magic and castles and moving gargoyles. They could be anyone here.

“Oh? An alchemist?”

“I believe you knew that alchemy was involved,” Mustang said dryly. Ed scoffed - the old man had barely exchanged words with them - and Mustang gave him a look out the corner of his eye. “Yes, Fullmetal, he knows alchemy.”

“I do,” Dumbledore admitted, smile turning pleased. His eyes never strayed from Mustang’s face and Ed assumed that Dumbledore didn’t quite know what he was getting into. Staring at Mustang was a hazard. Plus, a wizard that knew alchemy? Something wasn’t adding up. “It’s a hobby of mine that I haven’t indulged in quite a few years, but some things always stick with you.”

“Who has the Philosopher’s Stone?” Teacher asked blankly. Ed inhaled sharply, zeroing in on Dumbledore and leaning forward in his seat, flesh hands gripping the armchair under him tightly. He hadn’t been listening when the old man had first shown up, but from the question, he’d said something. The room was quiet for some moments, all alchemists staring intently at Dumbledore who’d moved to place his hands in front of his face, knarled fingers steepled in an effective emotional shield.

When no information was forthcoming and Dumbledore remained still, Mustang said quietly, “If it is you, we need to know.”

A sigh. 

“I do not own a Philosopher’s Stone,” Dumbledore admitted, finally relaxing his hands and leaning back in his throne-like chair. The levity he’d been emitting was gone, a solemn weight dragging the corners of his mouth down. 

“Yeah yeah, this is all sad and shit,” Ed growled, tired of stalling and eager for sleep. “Just tell us what you know so we can get on with this conversation.” A hand cuffed the back of his head and he yelped, rubbing the spot petulantly and frowning at Teacher. “What was that for!”

“The Philosopher’s Stone that you speak of has been destroyed,” Dumbledore interjected smoothly, interrupting them before any bickering started. “A dear friend of mine had used it to live for quite some time, and when we learned of darker powers searching for the abilities the Stone could give them, we destroyed it.”

“Did you help make it?” Teacher asked gruffly. 

“No.” Dumbledore waved his stick again (wand, whatever) and then opened a drawer on his desk. A thick tome with the Tree of Alchemy embossed in brass on the front cover slammed down with a small puff of dust. Ed had read this book only recently, scratched down in Hohenheim's field shorthand from a time before Amestris. It had been a bitch to read, and he'd thrown up when he saw the array that mirrored the one coursing through his country, connecting each blood-soaked land to each other in a star of death. How Dumbledore had gotten it, he'd find out. For now, he snatched the book up quickly, fingers first running over the tree and then flipping it open about twenty pages. 

He was still for a long moment, staring into the array with a faraway gaze. Teacher was still quiet next to him, though she must know what he was looking at. He couldn't chance a look at her or Mustang.

“These are all of the notes my friend used for his process of creating a Philosopher’s Stone, though he changed some calculations,” Dumbledore disclosed, looking Mustang and Teacher earnestly in the eyes. “I was not privy to this information until Nicholas had finished. Otherwise, I would have stopped him.”

“You still call him your friend,” Ed said quietly, still staring at the circle. “Yet he used this array and created a Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Well, yes,” Dumbledore said. “He didn’t use humans.”

All three conscious alchemists jerked in their chairs. 

“He used garden gnomes,” Dumbledore implored. “An entire generation. It’s not much better, by any means, but gnomes are pests on the best of days. They are chemically close enough to humans that simply increasing the carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen offset the physical component requirement.” 

“The souls,” Ed breathed. “But what about the souls required? An array like this doesn’t just pull from the physical elements. Equivalent exchange demands a price for the power of a Philosopher’s Stone, and the only ingredient strong enough or worthy enough is a human soul. If what you’re saying is true, then these garden gnomes have souls equal to that of a human. What makes that any better?”

Dumbledore frowned, mouth opening but closing on another thought. Ed continued, pissed, “It’s still death! It’s still taking another life to further your own. It’s like the homunculi that look down on humans, using them to create Stones to turn into gods. What your friend did was no better than that. How do we know you’re not above this? How do we know that what he even said was true? You said you didn’t have any proof beyond what’s in this book, but this array doesn’t say anything about gnome souls!”

“I see your point,” Dumbledore said after a moment of ringing silence. “I will think about this.”

“Forgive me for derailing the conversation here,” Teacher said dryly. Ed looked at her sharply, incensed that she didn't care, but her face had lost its pallor and she was breathing laboriously. “I don’t suppose you have a school nurse.” 

“Good question,” Mustang said while Dumbledore waved his stupid stick again. Teacher smirked at him at the same time that Ed scowled at him. Condescending ass. 

They all almost fell out of their seats when a spectrum of light erupted like a fountain from the tip of Dumbledore's wand, coalescing into a majestic bird of pure energy that Ed had never seen before. From Mustang’s small frown, he knew what breed the bird was and didn’t seem pleased. 

“Please get Poppy for potentially life-threatening wounds,” Dumbledore said politely to it. It flew in an arch above their heads like ribbons in a breeze before disappearing through the wall, supposedly on its way to Poppy, the school nurse. It was sentient?

“You have a light phone.” 

The voice was quiet but awed, and it took Ed a full three seconds to realize it had come from the pile of cloth that was his brother. 

“Al!” he yelped, climbing higher in his chair to lean over and look at his brother’s face peaking up from Mustang’s shoulder. He had sleep marks embossed on his cheek. “How long have you been awake?”

“Probably as soon as you started yelling, Shortstack,” Mustang smirked, leaning back to gain a couple of inches distance when Ed jerked his head up for a retort, eyes on fire. 

“Colonel,” Al admonished, frowning up at him.

“Very well,” Mustang said genially as if Al had asked him for the biggest of favors. The amount of audacity, really.

A knock on the door alerted them to another presence, just in time, and Ed turned to see a portly woman in a white apron hurry through the door, carrying a leather satchel. 

“I came as soon as I could, Albus,” she said upon arrival. “Who is hurt?”

Her eyes roved over them hungrily, narrowing further after each scan. Undoubtedly she realized they were all hurt, and Ed relaxed when he realized she was truly a healer once she stopped asking questions and darted over to Teacher. Dumbledore nodded and sat back in his chair again while Ed and Al exchanged looks over Mustang's shoulder.

“You need to come with me,” Poppy said after a moment. She must have been an orchestra conductor in a past life with the way she slashed and flicked her wand. Each wave emitted a soft glow of multiple different colors, and Ed supposed that she was using it as a vitals measurement device. “Your blood pressure is 112 over 25, very low - blood sugar dropping steadily from 60 to 55 in minutes - if you continue as you are you will faint and then die.” 

Poppy talked quickly, but she’d looked at Dumbledore imploringly, motioning with her wand in a simple universal gesture of, “Well?” Dumbledore waved his wand and a stretcher bloomed into existence, hovering three feet above the ground. Ed knew there weren’t going to be any strings tying it to the ceiling, but he wanted to feel around anyway, freaked out by the lack of equivalent exchange and total desecration of physics.

“Please,” Poppy urged, motioning towards the stretcher and helping Teacher stand. They all watched in silence. 

“We’ll talk later,” Teacher growled at them on her way to the door. Ed thought she sounded weakly astounded, which fit. He wanted to go with her but he couldn’t do anything, and Poppy didn’t seem to be waiting around for them to make up their mind. Plus the last time Teacher was this injured she had beaten the shit out of him and Al for showing any kind of concern. Hard to feel concerned now with her phantom fist planted in his gut.

“We will have a lot to talk about,” Mustang said, and she grinned sharply before she and Poppy both disappeared around the door frame. 

“You’ve arrived at a good time,” Dumbledore admitted after she was gone. “In one week our new term will start. We have just moved our teachers in for the year, yet our school is empty enough that there should be no questions from curious eyes.” 

“What do you teach here?” Mustang asked conversationally, dark eyes unconcerned when they rested on the empty armchair that Teacher had housed. Ed recalled that it wasn’t the first time he’d had to leave someone in a hospital while he searched for answers. Hughes' situation didn't fit, but Havoc sprang to mind.

“We teach multiple subjects relating to our magical culture,” Dumbledore said. “These subjects range from practical application to maths to theoretical research.” 

“Can I sit in a class?” Al asked, pulling the jacket over his head down to drape across his bony shoulders. His hair was a little matted with dirt and grease, but it glowed in the light from the candles dotting the room. 

“That depends,” Dumbledore said gently, smiling at Al over his half-moon glasses. The look instantly lost respect points for Ed. “Are you a young wizard?”

“We’re all alchemists,” Ed said bluntly, crossing his arms and frowning at the man. He’d be damned if he was a fucking wizard. 

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said, eyes alight as if he’d just thought of that himself. Ed’s frown turned into a glare. As if the old man hadn’t been wondering throughout this entire conversation. He wanted to drag it out now, just to see how irritated he could make the guy. “If you don’t mind my asking, where do you come from? Is everyone an alchemist?”

“We are alchemists from a world across the universe deposited here by God to get rid of a homunculus that is rising in power,” Mustang said, politely vague yet oddly specific. Unsurprisingly, the effect was rather similar to their feelings after Truth explained it.

“I see,” Dumbledore murmured, blue eyes distant. “A homunculus rising in power, you say? I believe I know the exact being you speak of. Before we continue this conversation, as I suspect it will become a far deeper topic that will take a much longer time to discuss, I would offer you a room. Please, follow me. I will ensure that there is a warm bath and fresh food.”

“Very well,” Mustang allowed and stood to follow when Dumbledore rounded his large desk. Al giggled and wrapped his legs around him, so incredibly thin. The man didn’t move a facial muscle, stoic as if he didn’t have an emaciated thirteen-year-old in his arms and he was just on his way to work. Ed normally associated the look with Hawkeye, and he snickered at the man when he realized it was because he was uncomfortable. 

“Is Teacher going to be okay?” Al asked, gold eyes wide with worry as they walked, glancing around at the paintings and stained glass windows and lanterns that remained unlit. 

“She is currently in the hands of our Medi-Witch,” Dumbledore explained. “She is renowned across the globe and has served Hogwarts during some of her toughest years. She has seen all manner of wounds after working at our magical hospital, St. Mungo's. Your teacher is in the best hands.” 

Ed didn’t quite believe it but he needed a shower and to eat before he could offer up enough energy to continue being suspicious. Mustang and Al seemed to be in a similar state, and all three followed Dumbledore the rest of the way in silence. 

“Barnacle Brandy,” he randomly said to a painting on some random wall. Ed was seriously starting to question their host’s sanity when the painting started moving and talking.

“Very well,” the knight said solemnly, and the wall collapsed into the floor as if it had never been there. The room beyond was cozy and warm, and had one hallway with four doors.

“Please, enjoy your baths. Fresh clothes and refreshments are waiting for you in the common area. I will be here in the morning to take you to our Great Hall for breakfast, and then we can continue our conversation. I believe your teacher should be well enough to attend, as well - Poppy has not called for external help, so she is in a manageable condition,” Dumbledore added thoughtfully. “Do have a pleasant night.”

The wall shot back up after the old man turned tail and left, steps hurried. 

“Fucking magic!” Ed snarled.