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Ling wakes to his valet standing over him with a breakfast tray balanced on one hand and a letter clutched in the other.  Sleep had not come easily last night, and he is not ready to be awake.  His sleep does not matter much to his meetings, and he pushes himself into a sitting position and hangs listlessly against the wall.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” says his valet, and Ling longs for Lan Fan to set his breakfast down on the desk and wait in silence for Ling to decide that warm tea is worth more than the comfort of his bed.  Lan Fan is not here; the Household Department had sent her back to the Yao Clan and appointed Ling a new valet.  “Your breakfast,” says his valet. 

“Thank you, Yan Zheng,” says Ling.  “Please put it on the desk.” 

Yan Zheng places the tray on Ling’s bedside table.  “You must eat now, Your Highness,” he says, as he says every morning. 

With no incentive to leave his bed under his own power, Ling cups the tea in two hands and dozes.  He jerks himself awake when the steam stops billowing into his face and sips the lukewarm tea.  It does little to warm him, and the room feels cold in spite of Yan Zheng’s efforts with the firewood.  He sets the cup down and stares reluctantly at the small bowl of rice on the tray.  The early hour leaves the kitchens no time to prepare the sticky buns he had enjoyed in the mornings before he was Crown Prince, and he is left with rice.  The accompanying sauce and vinegar do little to entice him when he thinks of the Yao clan’s rich breakfast offerings and the restaurants which line the streets beyond the Palace City. 

He eats the rice without thinking about eating, and then his attentions turn to the letter at his side.  It is addressed to him in a familiar scrawl, and Ling longs to tear it open and drink in its contents.  He eyes Yan Zheng, who has finished stoking the fire and is now selecting Ling’s clothing for the day.

“Thank you, Yan Zheng,” says Ling, not feeling particularly grateful.

Yan Zheng inclines his head.  “Are you ready to dress, Your Highness?  The Emperor is in good health today, but you will still be expected to attend this morning’s meetings.”

An empty afternoon looms ahead of Ling in light of his father’s relative wellness, then. “Very well,” he says numbly, and pulls himself out of bed.

Standing in front of Yan Zheng in his nightclothes, Ling feels vulnerable.  He wraps his arms around himself in a show of useless modesty and wonders whether he would be able to protect himself if Yan Zheng attacked him.  Setting the thought aside, he allows Yan Zheng to dress him.  He misses dressing himself. 

There is little time once Ling is dressed before he is expected at the Union Hall for the trade meeting, and the letter is left woefully abandoned on his bedside table. 

Though Ling thinks of little but the letter as the meeting commences, once the negotiations have begun, he finds that he enjoys it.  The committee is full of ageing nobles, each one as dull and arrogant as the last, and Ling enjoys sparring with them until they concede his point.  Even now, as young as he is and as contentious as his pending rule may be, Ling is beginning to sow seeds of change.

Yan Zheng is waiting for him in the hallway when the meeting is over, as always, and Ling despairs at the man.

“Hello,” says Ling, plastering on a smile.  “I thought I might spend the afternoon at one of the teahouses.”

Yan Zheng blinks at him.  “You cannot be seen at a teahouse,” he says.  “You will be recognised.”

Irritation thrums through Ling.  “Well, okay,” he says mildly.  “In which case, I should like to visit the Hall of Literary Excellence.  I have some messages to send.”

After a moment’s pause, Yan Zheng gives a little sigh, the corners of his lips turning down.  “Understood.  I will accompany you.”

“Might we stop by my chambers first?”

When they reach his chambers, Ling hides the letter in his sleeve, not wanting Yan Zheng to be privy to his personal life.  The walk to the Hall of Literary Excellence is stifling under Yan Zheng’s watch.  Ling wonders if the man is doing it deliberately.  Yan Zheng steps ahead of Ling at the entrance to the Hall, and Ling stops short.

“Thank you,” he says firmly.  “This is a confidential matter.  I am perfectly capable of sending a telegram under my own steam.”

Yan Zheng steps away from the door stiffly, and Ling feels the man’s glare boring into his back until the door swings closed.  Still feeling Yan Zheng’s stare, Ling locks himself in the telegraph room and delves into his letter.  He smiles as his eyes glance over the scrawl – a messy unravelling of Edward’s affairs in Central City interspersed with commentary on the ethics of taking the last serving of quiche and his current theory on the improbability of a liminal existence with a view to contemporary research on the infiniteness of the Universe.

It is a remarkably short letter.

He finishes reading it, and then he is bored again.  Yan Zheng is waiting outside for him.  That is more than enough to set Ling’s resolve.  He lunges towards the Teletype and punches out two notes – one to select members of the Amestrian Military, and another shorter, encoded message to Edward.  Satisfied that the notes are on their way, he reluctantly handwrites a note to the Dowager Empress.

By nightfall, he is headed towards Amestris.

*

Three days later, Ling arrives – blessedly unrecognised by the Amestrian public – at Central City’s train station.  He is glad to alight the train quickly after three days of travel with only a brief break at the border between Amestris and the Desert Area to swap his car for a train and to have his weapons taken from him by an Amestrian border guard.  His back hurts and he hasn’t had the chance to wash. 

Still, he steps off the train and scans the platform brightly, trying not to think too hard about the number of weapons any single one of the people around him might be carrying.

(Trying not to think about how the thought doesn’t terrify him like it should, even without the familiar press of his swords against his back and his daggers against his ankles.) 

A woman steps directly into his line of sight and he startles.  He stares her up and down swiftly, then breaks into a wide grin.  “Lieutenant Hawkeye!” he says.  “How good to see you!”

Lieutenant Hawkeye doesn’t return his enthusiasm and instead returns his stare silently.  She has deep bags under her eyes and a peeved expression is evident in the press of her lips.  “Hello, Prince Ling,” she says.  “I have a car waiting.”

She turns on her heel and marches towards the exit, apparently expecting Ling to follow.  It’s refreshing, sort of, to have to trot at someone’s heels to keep pace.  There is a seam on the right shoulder of her jacket with a tiny line of three stitches in white thread instead of blue, and the people all around Ling run back and forth with fists clenched around loose change, around photos of their wives, around knives and guns and stones for throwing.  The rogue white threads pull taut and loose with each breath Hawkeye takes, and Ling wonders how long it will be before the first tired white thread comes loose again; if she will fix it again with white thread or use blue this time, or decide that the whole jacket is too small for her broad shoulders and replace the whole thing.  The fabric on either side of the seam stretches imposingly and Ling watches helplessly as he catches a glimpse of a black shirt against those lone white stitches, as a jacket with no more give left in it forces its reach and pulls its alien threads tremulously straight, an example to the others.

“Prince Ling,” snaps Hawkeye, and Ling comes back into focus to realise that she is holding open a car door for him.

Strange; he doesn’t remember stepping out of the station and into the cold, but his cheeks feel slapped pink by the chill and when he reaches for the car door, his fingers are numb.  He settles into the passenger seat and tries to shake his disorientation. 

Lieutenant Hawkeye drops into the driver’s seat and slams her door closed, then presses her fingers to her forehead, cupping a hand over her right eye and sighing deeply.  Eventually, she pulls her hand away, looking no better for it, and turns to Ling.

“Colonel Mustang will bring this up when we arrive, and I’m sure you already know,” she says, “but travelling to Amestris on a telegraph’s notice is incredibly irresponsible for someone in your position.” 

“Sorry,” says Ling awkwardly, not sure if he really means it.  He will hear this again from Yan Zheng when he returns to Xing, and the sentiment buzzes around his temples ready for him to swat away.

Hawkeye holds up a hand.  “I’m not finished,” she says, and Ling blinks back at her, surprised.  “You should have waited for a response before you left Xing, and you should have telephoned when you arrived at East City so that we had some idea of when you would arrive.”

Ling shrinks a little.  “Sorry,” he says again, with a bit more meaning.

Hawkeye sighs and starts the engine, and Ling stares resolutely ahead. 

The drive is silent and uncomfortable, and Ling is relieved when Hawkeye pulls into a street lined with identical townhouses and gestures without any vitriol for him to get out.  She leads him a few houses down and he lingers behind her as she knocks a pattern onto the door. 

The door swings open almost immediately, and then Ling is face to face with Roy Mustang. 

“Come in,” says Mustang shortly, then steps away from the door and leads Ling down a narrow hallway and into a small kitchen. 

Ed is sitting upright at the table, already facing the door.  His face is thunderous and warm and expectant, and a little of Ling’s tiredness lifts as Ed stands, scowling, and storms across the room. 

“Hi,” says Ling.

“What the hell are you playing at!?” snaps Ed.  He holds a glare for all of a second, then his face softens, and he gives a sigh.  “Don’t answer that.  Just…”  He trails off.  “You need to eat,” he says firmly.  “I made stew.”

Ling lowers himself into a chair and stares as Ed ladles stew into two off-grey bowls.  Ed’s movements are as inelegant as usual, made even more ugly by the force of his irritation and the angry splat as the stew hits each bowl.  For his part, Ling is captivated.  When Ed is finished wiping stray stew-splatters from the counter, he turns to Hawkeye.  “Have you eaten?”

Hawkeye manages a fraught sort of smile.  “I’m not hungry,” she says quietly.  She’s gripping the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. 

“You look like you’re about to fall over,” says Ed.  “You should sit.”

“Maybe,” says Hawkeye distantly, and then the remaining colour drains from her face and Ling thinks for a terrible moment that she’s about to faint, but she staggers towards the door and slips from the room instead.  Mustang follows her, pulling the door firmly closed behind him. 

Ed sets two bowls of stew on the table and sits across from Ling.  The stew is colourful, and brown stains spatter up the sides of the grey bowl, and there is something to discern in it, but Ling can’t think what.

“Eat,” urges Ed.  “I don’t want you to faint.”

Ling pulls the spoon towards his mouth mechanically and swallows his first mouthful of the stew.  He thinks, almost perversely, that the food would taste delicious if he wasn’t so hungry.  He can barely taste it, chewing weakly.  Bringing each spoonful to his mouth is trying; he hadn’t realised his hands were trembling until the stew was in front of him and drawing the brief course from the bowl up to his mouth seems more effort than it’s worth.  A sound from upstairs startles him, and he spills his third spoonful over his chest.  He stares at it.

“Oh, man,” says Ed.  “I didn’t think you’d be this far gone – hold on.”

He abandons the table, and a glass of juice appears in front of Ling a moment later.  Ling blinks at it.

“Drink,” says Ed sternly, taking his seat again.

Ling lifts the glass on Ed’s command and drains it, only spilling a little before the glass is empty.  The world comes back into focus a bit, after that, and he digs into the stew properly.  He’s ravenous, he realises, and the stew really is delicious.  “This is incredible,” he says around his third mouthful.

Ed cracks a smile, then – just a little one.  “Yeah, well,” he says.  “You’re still in deep shit.  I’m taking you to see my teacher tomorrow, by the way.”

Ling blinks in surprise.  “Really?”

“You’d know if you’d waited long enough to read my reply before you decided to go missing for three and a half days,” he says, an edge of irritation colouring his voice.

“You have not met Yan Zheng, my dear,” says Ling.  “Were you to meet him, you would also try to escape – perhaps even sooner than I.”

Ed rolls his eyes with a snort.

“You may scoff, but you do not spend every trip to the bathroom with a man listening through the door.”

“You’re feeling better, then,” Ed says with a smirk.

Ling’s response is interrupted by Mustang’s return, and Ling feels the awkward atmosphere returning to the room as Mustang stares him up and down, evaluating him.

“You look better,” he says, not quite coldly.

“Is Lieutenant Hawkeye alright?” asks Ed, cutting across Mustang before he can say anything else.

Mustang’s face grows a little softer at that.  “Resting.  She’ll be alright by the morning.”

Ling is pleased to hear as much.  “I apologise for any part I may have played in her illness,” he says, more as a formality than anything else.

A frown grazes Mustang’s forehead, and his evaluating glare returns.  “That kind of vague apology means nothing,” he says flatly.  He’s silent for a moment, still evaluating Ling.  The moment passes, and Mustang’s eyes finally fall onto the table instead of Ling.  “Finish your stew and get a good night’s sleep.  I’m not going to have this discussion with you if I can’t have your full attention.”

“Understood,” says Ling.

He and Ed finish their stew in silence under Mustang’s watch.  When they’re both finished, Ed rises and reaches for their bowls.

“I’ll do it,” says Mustang.  “You were up all of last night.”

Ed hands the bowls to him with a relieved sigh.  “Yeah, sure.  Thanks.”

Ling lets Ed lead him out into the hallway and up a flight of stairs.  Every door is open except for the second one on the right.  Ling supposes that’s where Hawkeye is and passes it quietly.  Ed and Ling are in the room opposite. 

It’s a modest room, clearly built for stakeouts rather than comfort.  There’s a single bed pushed against the far wall and a plain wooden desk facing the window.  Behind him, Ed nudges the door closed.

“It’s not much, sorry,” says Ed.  “We’ll have to share the bed.”

The thought of sharing a bed with Ed doesn’t bother Ling the slightest bit, though he wishes it was bigger.  Still, he’s slept in far worse places.  He’ll manage.  “At last,” he says, “I get to share a bed with you.”

Ed snorts and pulls his shirt over his head.  He tosses it onto the floor and starts on his socks.  The scars where his automail port used to be are deep and thick, and Ling wonders absently if they still hurt.  Rather than ask, Ling sits on the edge of the bed and pulls his shoes off, ready to start on his socks.  A firm hand on his arm stops him.

“Absolutely not,” says Ed.

“What?” asks Ling, baffled by Ed’s tone and the sudden reprimand.

“You stink.  Take a shower or you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Showering now, when every thought has to push through a syrupy fog before materialising, almost seems like too much effort.  Rather than replying, Ling takes his hair down from its ponytail.  The ghost of his ponytail hangs limply at his shoulders, cloying at his neck. 

“Alright,” says Ling.  “Where’s the bathroom?”

Ed gets up with him, not bothering to cover up his bare chest.  “I’ll show you.”

Ed shows Ling how to use the shower, then pads out of the room.  Ling stands alone under a weak spray of lukewarm water and has to admit it feels better.  He washes his hair sluggishly and forgoes conditioner, then washes a thin layer of grime from his skin.  When he’s done, he washes his hair again for good measure and wonders whether he’d notice if the shampoo was spiked with poison.  He turns off the water and steps out of the shower, shivering slightly.  He pulls a towel around his waist and bundles his clothes under his arm.

Ling steps out of the bathroom at the same time as Mustang steps out of Hawkeye’s room.  He barely has time to give a sheepish smile before something is flying in his direction.  The projectile whizzes past his ear as he dodges to the right and presses his body against the wall.  His heart is pounding against his sternum, breaths coming hard and fast as he assumes a fighting stance and trains his eyes on his assailant.

Mustang is standing in place.  He raises his bare hands into Ling’s line of sight as if they both don’t know at least three places to conceal a knife within easy reach just for moments like these.  Ling knows 16, but as he is naked except for a towel and was stripped of his weapons at the border, not a single one is at his disposal.  He keeps his eyes fixed on Mustang, watching him close the door to Hawkeye’s bedroom. 

The hallway is narrow, and Mustang is closer to the stairs than Ling is.  Ling doesn’t move. 

“I won’t hurt you,” says Mustang calmly, raising his hands again as he turns.

“How can I be sure?” hisses Ling, voice low.  Whatever Mustang had lobbed at him lies abandoned on the floor in his peripheral vision, and Ling forces himself not to cave into curiosity and examine the diversion.  “Now would be the perfect time.”

“I can’t prove that I don’t want to hurt you,” concedes Mustang, “but I can at least say that I didn’t plan to cause an international incident by throwing sweatpants at you, so I’d be grateful if you would return the favour.”

Some of the tension seeps from Ling’s shoulders as he exhales.  “Sweatpants?”

“You didn’t bring any luggage with you,” says Mustang.  “I doubt Ed’s clothes would fit.”

Ling bends over and picks up the projectile sweatpants.  True to his word, Mustang doesn’t take the opportunity to attack him.  Any remaining adrenaline trickles away, and then Ling is standing in a towel, in the hallway, staring down a Colonel and clutching a pair of sweatpants.  “I apologise,” he says.  “Thank you for the clothing.”

Mustang gives a short nod, then slips back into Hawkeye’s room without a word.  Whole, unharmed, and embarrassed, Ling returns to his own room.  Ed is sitting up in bed with his hair down.  “What happened?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

Ling offers a practised smile in return.  “Just a misunderstanding,” he says nonchalantly.  “The Colonel gave me sweatpants.”

He steps into said sweatpants quickly, then joins Ed in the cramped bed and falls asleep before he’s even comfortable.

*

Mustang and Hawkeye are already waiting when Ed and Ling wander into the kitchen the next morning, both the picture of military excellence (Ling thinks of those three white stitches and wonders if the façade will last out the day).  Ling avoids Mustang’s eyes, choosing instead to pull at a loose thread on the sleeve of the too-tight shirt Ed had lent him. 

“Good morning,” says Hawkeye.  “Did you sleep well?”

“Wonderfully,” says Ling with a smile.  The crick in his neck from avoiding Ed’s haphazard arms and the bruises on his shins from Ed’s metal foot tell another story.  He had slept through the night, though, for the first time in many months.

“Good,” says Mustang, his tone clipped. 

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause.

Ed strides over to the fridge. “I’m making eggs,” he declares, banging a saucepan down on the counter.  “I’m not doing government talks until I’ve had eggs.”  He turns to Mustang.  “Give me a spark.”

“Use a match,” sighs Mustang, but pulls on a glove anyway and lights the stove for Edward, who promptly dumps an ungodly amount of butter into the saucepan and begins work on the eggs.  It’s almost hypnotic, watching him crack eggs into a mug, one after the other. 

“You’re having six eggs?” exclaims Mustang, disbelievingly. 

“What?” grunts Ed.  “They’re obviously not all for me.”

“Making eggs for us all, and first thing in the morning.  After something, FullMetal?” snipes Mustang, smirking.  Ling watches him out of the corner of his eye, taking note of his smooth, rehearsed movements. 

Uncomfortable with Mustang’s forced show of arrogance, Ling steps closer to the counter at the same time as Ed whirls around to face Mustang, brandishing a wooden spoon.  A small helping of scrambled egg flies from the spoon and spatters onto Ling’s cheek.  “Oh,” says Ling, surprised.

Ed lowers the spoon sheepishly.  “I was aiming for Mustang,” he says by way of an apology.

“And here we are instead,” says Mustang.  “Wonderful work, FullMetal, really excellent.”

Ed returns his focus to the eggs.  They’re both simmering. 

“Here,” says Hawkeye, holding out a cloth. 

Ling takes it and wipes his face clean.  “Thank you,” he says, then deposits the cloth into the sink.

A moment later, everyone has a plate of scrambled eggs in front of them, in spite of Ed’s mumbled threats not to let Mustang have any.  It doesn’t take long before the plates are clean, and Hawkeye begins to wash up without a word.  Ling thinks belatedly that he should have offered to help as he notes Mustang’s disapproving stare on him again.

When Hawkeye has finished and is returned to her place at Mustang’s back, Mustang rises to his feet and stares down at Ling.  “Now,” he says, “we need to have a discussion.”

Ling balks a little, but he supposes this was inevitable. 

“First: your visit is unofficial, as far as the military is involved.  With the exception of my team and the Fuhrer, most people think this is nothing more than a small-time noble’s leisure trip.”  Mustang rolls his shoulders back.  “As such, you have not been assigned a bodyguard.”

Ling thinks better of mentioning that he had come to Amestris to avoid his bodyguard anyway and tries to ignore the growing unease he feels at the lack of a weapon against his leg.

“Second.”  Mustang stands up straighter, towering over Ling.  “If the Amestrian Military ever receives note that you’ll be paying us an international visit without notice again, we will not hesitate to contact the Xingese government before you set foot on Amestrian soil.”  He pauses and takes a few steps towards the window, his shoulders pushed back heavily.  “Contact us from East City next time,” he says.  He turns, and Ling catches a glimpse of his profile.  His jaw is set, and his brow casts a shadow over his eyes.  “I will not have one of my team wait 12 hours for you again.” 

Ling shrinks a little under Mustang’s final words, and guilt claws at his skull.  “I understand,” he says.  If Mustang would only turn, Ling would meet his eyes.  “I will not leave the Amestrian Military in suspense again.”

Mustang turns back to Ling and gives a firm nod.  “Good – now, there’s something I’d like to discuss privately.”  He gestures for Ling to stand and follow him into the hallway.

As Mustang closes the kitchen door, Ling’s mouth turns dry, and he scans the hallway for possible escape routes.  There are none which would be viable, should Mustang raise his hand and snap his fingers.  “Have I offended you in some other way, Colonel Mustang?” asks Ling. 

“Not exactly,” says Mustang seriously.  “I wanted to speak about the telegram messages you sent.”

Ling feels himself growing irritated.  “With respect, Colonel Mustang, I believe we have discussed the telegram already.”

“I’m talking about your code,” says Mustang.

Ling frowns.  “I didn’t code my message to you.”

“I’m talking about your message to Edward.”

Ling’s nostrils flare, and his fists clench at his sides.  “You had no right to read that message, let alone break the code,” he spits.

Mustang does not break eye contact.  “I know that code like the back of my hand,” he says.  “I didn’t need to look at that message for more than a few seconds to break it.”  He sighs and closes his eyes for a second.  “I’m just saying that you need to be smarter about which codes you use if you want your messages to stay secret.”

Anger still bubbling away in the pit of Ling’s stomach at the thought of someone else being privy to his personal correspondences with Ed, he stares Mustang coldly in the eye.  “Is that all?”

“Not quite,” says Mustang.  “You know well enough that I don’t trust you.”  There is no trace of the military façade from earlier.  “Ed will take what you say at face value.  Do not abuse that.”  There’s something in the way Mustang’s eyebrows pull closer together as he tells Ling this; Ling thinks it might be guilt.

“I wouldn’t worry, Colonel Mustang, I never lie to avoid difficult discussions.”

A muscle in Mustang’s jaw jumps at Ling’s words, but he nods.  “Good.  I’ll hold you at your word.”

Mustang releases Ed and Ling with little fanfare shortly thereafter once Ed has called his Teacher to let her know he’s on his way, and then Ling is on yet another train.  Ed sits across from him, ankle perched on his knee, throwing peanuts into his mouth at regular intervals.  He’s the perfect picture of casual alertness, and Ling wonders whether Ed keeps a weapon on his person, now that he can’t use alchemy.

“What?” asks Ed, catching Ling staring.

“Do you have a knife?”

“What for?” Ed pops another peanut into his mouth.

“For stopping people from hurting you.”  It’s the most obvious thing in the world to Ling that Ed should carry a knife.

Ed chokes on his peanut, and Ling fears for a moment that the FullMetal Alchemist will meet his end by not chewing properly.  A knife would be useless against a blocked windpipe.  The thought makes Ling feel distant and empty.  Ed pounds a fist against his chest a few times, then looks at Ling, eyes streaming.  “No, I don’t carry a knife,” he coughs.  He takes another moment to control the coughing, and then his expression grows serious.  “It might be different for you, in your position, but I don’t plan to kill anyone.”

Ling has no response to that, so he doesn’t give one.  The subject changes to lighter matters, and they arrive in Dublith two hours later.

Ed steps off the train with a small duffel bag, and Ling steps off the train with nothing, nothing concealed.  There is nobody waiting for them, Ed says, because Ed already knows the way.

Dublith is milder than Central.  The wind doesn’t hit as sharply, and the cold doesn’t bite in the same way.  The smell of engine fuel combined with freshwater tang floats up through Ling’s nostrils like an old memory, and he turns to Ed.  “The port here is much larger than the one in Xing – I should account for that in my next infrastructure report.”

Ed casts him a strange look, the station’s entrance arch framing his figure.  “How did you know there’s a port here?  I thought you hadn’t been to Dublith before.”

Ling stops in his tracks, his familiar emptiness pushing up at his shoulders.  “I… just knew.”

Ed stands still, apparently deep in thought, and then smiles widely.  “Well, we can figure it out later!”  Ling thinks Ed has already figured it out, but he can say nothing as Ed walks out ahead of him and begins to lead him through Dublith.

Each winding street sits somewhere familiar with Ling, and each time Déjà vu washes over him, he glances around uneasily.  By the time Ed comes to a stop outside of a (blessedly unfamiliar) front door, Ling is jumpy and frustrated. 

“Is this your Teacher’s house?” asks Ling, a little more sharply than he’d intended.

“Yep,” says Ed, pushing past Ling to knock on the wood.

The door swings over before Ed even raises his hand, and a thin woman Ling recognises as Mrs Curtis stands in the doorway, her face like thunder.  “How many times,” she snaps, “have I told you to use the knocker rather than ruining the paintwork!”  She folds her arms.  “Idiot student.”

As Mrs Curtis scolds Ed, Ling catches sight of an unmissable bronze door knocker.  He supposes this is not the first time they have had this conversation.

“Well, come in,” she finally snaps.  “Wipe your feet first.”

Ling follows Ed and Mrs Curtis inside, and then stares in surprise at the room around him.  There are cuts of meat everywhere he looks, and a large, wide man is shifting several pieces of wrapped meat from the counter into a fridge.  When Ling looks away from the (familiar) wide man, Mrs Curtis is staring at him with a distinctly unimpressed expression.  “Have you never been into a Butcher’s before?” she asks.

As a matter of fact, Ling hasn’t, though he’s reluctant to say it.  “I’ve eaten a shoe,” he says instead, dumbly.

Mrs Curtis sputters for a second, then apparently decides not to press the issue any further.  “I’ll have plenty of questions to ask you over dinner,” she says, and Ling is struck by the distinct feeling that this is a threat.  “In the meantime, though, I wanted to thank you for what you did when we were stuck under the City.”  She pauses.  “It was nice to know that not everyone on the surface was dead.”

Ling’s blood runs cold.  He does not remember Greed’s time under the Nationwide Transmutation Circle.  He remembers very little at all of the time Mrs Curtis is referring to, except for snatches here and there; he had given himself up to Greed, then, and nothing had cut so strongly into Ling’s conscious that it had forced him into vying for control – so he had spent that fight, at least, nestled deep in his own body.

He offers up an easy smile.  “You’re most welcome, Mrs Curtis.”

Mrs Curtis’s face falls at that, as if she can smell Ling’s insincerity.  She ushers Ed and Ling into the kitchen and the wide man follows a few minutes later, smelling of meat, and washes his hands. 

Hands clean, the wide man turns to Ling and holds his hand out.  “Sig.”

Ling blinks.  “Ling, sir.”  He takes Sig’s hand and shakes it weakly.

There is some kerfuffle before everyone is seated for dinner; Ed is adamant that he wants to help, in spite of Mrs Curtis’s insistence that there is nothing to help with, and Ling worries for a moment that Mrs Curtis is going to throw Ed out of the window.  Once Ed is firmly seated (inside the house), Mrs Curtis levels a glare across the table at both Ling and Ed.  Ling feels rather like a boil on Ed’s leg, ready to be drained.

“Al loved the minestrone you made last time we were here,” says Ed enthusiastically.  “It went straight into his recipe book!”

Mrs Curtis’s face softens at the mention of Alphonse.  “I’m glad to hear it,” she says.  “I’ll have something just as good waiting for him when he’s back from Aerugo.”

Ed smirks without any venom.  “With the way we all feed him, he’ll be twice the size of Sig when he leaves again.”

Sig gives an approving nod.  “I’ll have to arm-wrestle him.”

The easy family atmosphere around the table is not something Ling is familiar with, and he’s almost relieved when Mrs Curtis’s glare turns harsh again.  “I hear you’re next in line to Xing’s throne,” she says without a hint of reverence in her voice.  

“Yes, ma’am,” says Ling sheepishly.

“And you’re… interested in Edward?”

Ed ducks his head down at Mrs Curtis’s words and shovels beef into his mouth so fast that Ling thinks he might choke.

“I… yes, ma’am,” says Ling.

Mrs Curtis squints at him in a way Ling thinks has less to do with her eyesight and more to do with an attempt to seem threatening.  “I see.  Well, you’d best be aware that I don’t teach my students to stand on ceremony.”

Ling politely cuts a corner off his beef.  “Thank you, Mrs Curtis, I know.”

One of Mrs Curtis’s eyebrows quirks upwards.  “Well, I’m glad you know,” she says.  “You’d be in for a bit of a shock if Ed put on any airs and graces, not that I’ve ever told him to do anything like that.”  She leans forward slightly before Ling has a chance to nod.  “Now,” she says, “tell me about your fighting experience.”

The question sends Ling into a frenzy of chewing.  Mrs Curtis offers him no grace, and his mouth is full of roast beef.  Ed, for his part, takes a sip of water to hide his smirk and makes no further efforts where Ling’s conundrum is concerned. 

Just as Ling is about to swallow his pride and talk around his beef, Mr Curtis has mercy.  “Take your time,” he says.  “Don’t choke.”

Ling follows the instructions.  Once he has swallowed, he meets Mrs Curtis’s eye.  “I’m a trained martial artist,” he says.  “I caught a Homunculus once.”

“You were a Homunculus once,” says Mrs Curtis harshly. 

Ling isn’t sure what to say to that – and neither is anyone else – so he finishes his beef in silence.  After dinner has drawn to a close, there is a moment in which everyone sits and stares at their plates.  “Do you… need help clearing up?” asks Ling.

“No,” says Mrs Curtis sharply.  “Go and explore and have fun.   It might be your last chance before you ascend the throne.”

Unsure of what else to say and eager to escape, Ling exchanges a glance with Ed and then nods resolvedly.  He would much rather explore Dublith’s delights (few, he expects) than sit under Mrs Curtis’s discerning stare.  Ed throws a coat over Ling’s shoulders (he’s not sure whose coat it is, but it’s not Ed’s) and basically pushes Ling out of the front door.

Dublith, though warmer during the day, has an edge of coolness which sends Ling bundling the oversized coat more closely around himself.   Ed falls into step next to him, apparently content to walk in silence with him.  It’s nice.  Ling finds himself taken in by the steady, even sound of each footfall.  One of their footsteps is landing a second too late.  It gives the walk a strange, tripping sound.

“So, what do you want to do?” asks Ed.

Ling flinches, not expecting the interruption.  “Why don’t you show me what Dublith has to offer?”

Ed smiles sheepishly.  “I only lived here as a kid, and it was to learn alchemy.”  He pauses.  “I could take you to the island Al and I spent a month on.  We could forage for food, nearly die of thirst – it’ll be like old times.”

Ling wrinkles his nose.  “I’ll pass.”

They turn into an alleyway, then, almost automatically.  The buildings cast shadows over the pavement, and Ling can just barely make out the sheen of Ed’s hair in the moonlight.  Ling draws to a stop almost on instinct.  There’s a thump from behind them – a fox, Ling reasons.

He looks up at the bar looming over them.  “There,” he says.  “Why don’t we have a drink?”

“Are you sure?” asks Ed.  “There are nicer places in Dublith than The Devil’s Nest.  I got kidnapped from here once.”

“It feels right,” says Ling, ignoring Ed’s raised eyebrow.

Ed shrugs.  “Alright, I guess.”

The Devil’s Nest is busy in a comforting sort of way.  Snatches of conversation cut over each other, garbling the soundscape.  Ling strides up to the bar, pushing through the considerable crowds.  The bartender is unshaven and greying. 

“What can I get you?” grouses the bartender.

Ling squints at the plethora of bottles lined up behind the bar.  “A Desert Duck, please,” he says with a confidence he does not feel.

“Double?”

“Oh – yes, please.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow and gives Ling a dubious stare, but a meagre amount of clear liquid is slammed onto the bar a few seconds later.  Ling frowns at it – there’s hardly anything in the glass.  He opens his mouth to object, but Ed elbows in front of him and offers the bartender a forced grin.

“That’s great, thanks!” says Ed, fumbling for his wallet.  “Can I get a half of orange juice – make that a pint, actually!”

The bartender seems to relax a bit at Ed’s interjection, and Ling soon finds himself seated opposite Ed on a high barstool a metre away from the bar.  Ed sips his orange juice, eyeing Ling unhappily.  Ling tries some of his own drink, just for something to do, and chokes.

Ed snorts.  “You’re meant to down it in one,” he says.  “It’s not an aged whiskey.”

Ling makes a face but follows Ed’s advice and downs the drink.  It’s horrible, cloying on the back of his tongue, but it burns warm and familiar through his chest too.  He sits back on his stool.  “How interesting,” he remarks.  “I’ve only ever tasted wine before.”

“I guessed,” says Ed dryly.

They sit quietly for a moment, and then Ling stands.  “I’m going to get another drink,” he says.

Ed gives him a reproachful stare, then hands him a 400-cenz note.  “You owe me.”

“Thanks – I’ll pay you back,” says Ling, feeling a little uneasy. 

He returns to the table with a glass of red wine and a gin he’d heard someone else order.  He hands Ed the change.

“I’m not drinking,” says Ed slowly. 

“I’ll just have both, then,” says Ling cheerfully, opting to pretend that keeping the drinks to himself hadn’t been his intention all along.

Ed stares at him.  “If you’d wanted to drink, we could have stayed back with Teacher.  Sig likes Scotch.”

“No,” says Ling, rocked by the hum of the bar.  “This is nice.”  It’s not, but it’s something close.

He downs his gin, then stands.  “I need the bathroom,” he says, ignoring the slight slur to his words.

Ed sets down his glass of orange juice.  “I’m coming with you.”

They resume their seats again a few minutes later.  Ling starts on his wine and tries to ignore the way Ed peers over his orange juice, scrutinising him.  Halfway through the glass, he sits back and presses a hand to his cheek, flushing.

“Some wine,” he remarks dazedly. 

Ed is frowning at the glass in his hand.  “Sure ‘snot port?” he slurs.

Ling glances up at him dully, barely registering the way Ed’s eyes widen.

“We need t’ – go.”

*

Ling’s cheek is sticking to the ground.  He works his jaw up and down dazedly, then opens his eyes.  It’s hard to focus – the space is familiar, and a pair of golden eyes is trained on him, and behind those there’s an old brown stain like someone once lost so much blood here that it rusted onto the landscape.

He blinks.  The blood is – someone’s. 

“Martel’s,” croaks Ed.  “Guess cleaned up down here after.”

Martel.  A wave of grief crashes over Ling and he flops onto his back, dizzy and disoriented.  “I never knew her,” he says, barely recognising his own voice.  “Why do I feel…” 

He trails off as Ed pushes himself onto his feet.  Ed is on his feet and a friend Ling never knew is dead.  It hurts unbearably, somewhere deep in his chest and in his throat.  He swallows and the pain doubles down, burning in his throat and in his chest and in his eyes.  Ed is having a conversation with someone.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I would, if I were you.” 

Ling doesn’t recognise that voice.  He thinks that should alarm him.  It doesn’t. 

“Or what?” 

Ling drops his head to the side and gazes at the fuzzy mark on the wall.  His chest clenches again and the back of his tongue sours.  He tunes out the shouting, focusing instead on the frantic sound of feet crashing against the ground.  Fighting, then.  He blinks sluggishly.  When he opens his eyes, he’s staring at a thick red sole of a shoe.  There’s the unmistakeable sound of someone unsheathing a knife.

Ling rolls to his feet and shoves Ed to one side, ignoring the nauseating lurch as his surroundings falter around him.  He can save one person.  His chest tightens again, sick at the thought of more fresh blood spattering onto the walls of the tunnel, decorating it red-then-brown and then not at all when the building is condemned and destroyed, and a new apartment complex is built in its place. 

His stomach clenches, pain wrenching right through him (chest, throat, eyes burn), and he gives a sick retch as an elbow pushes into his shoulder, forcing him back.  He vomits harshly and falls to his knees, gripping his stomach.  He scrabbles at the ground, fighting desperately to stand again.

There’s a noise like metal crunching from above, and Ling makes a distressed noise as Ed clatters to the ground and their assailant looms.  Two people.  It’s two people and all of Xing.  He can’t save them. 

Ed is above him, then, blood dripping down the side of his face and from his nose.  His right eye is swollen shut, but the left is frantic and furious.  “What the hell were you thinking?” he chokes.

Ling frowns, fumbling for words.  Ed’s eyes are fixed on his stomach, so Ling looks down at it too.

There is a knife in his stomach.  “Oh,” he says.  He fixes his eyes on the ceiling.  “I forgot.”  His voice echoes around the empty tunnel.  Only Ed and the assailant are privy to his words.  Such encroaching privacy.

Ed’s face crumples.  He clutches at Ling’s shoulder, his hand in a fist like he might throw a punch, but he clenches handfuls of Ling’s shirt instead.  It’s like he’s already grieving.  Ling curls his hand around Ed’s wrist and meets his eyes resolutely.  Ed understands.

In the following clutch of seconds, Ling blinks, and three things happen.

First: a blast of hot air streams over Ling’s body.  He is told later that the rope of flame was rather impressive.

Second: a gun fires and their assailant gives a startled shout.

Third: Ed lets go of Ling.

When Ling opens his eyes, Ed is lying on the ground beside him, trembling with exhaustion and cursing under his breath.

They’re alright, then, so Ling passes out.

*

Ling wakes in a strange place.  He wonders what he’s missed, why Greed chose such a hard bed.  He closes his eyes and opens them again.  His stomach is aching ferociously. 

He remembers.

“You’re awake,” says someone above him.

Ling doesn’t respond, but he looks at the person.  Mustang.  He catches a glimpse of golden hair from the neighbouring bed and relaxes. 

“I’ve had telegrams from your vassal coming through for days,” says Mustang.  “You sure know how to tie everyone in knots.” 

“Why are you here?” asks Ling before he can stop himself.

“To scold you for nearly causing an international incident, and to advise you and Edward both to come up with a better code.”

“Again with the fucking code,” murmurs Ed, startling Ling.  “Sorry for not realising an Anti-Military faction were intercepting my fucking messages.”

“They didn’t want me?” asks Ling, surprised.

“They didn’t even realise who you were,” says Mustang, dry humour edging into his tone.  “You’re mostly off the hook.”

The door swings back and forth on its hinges and Mrs Curtis appears in its wake.

“Mostly,” says Mustang, then quickly leaves the room.

“My idiot student has already heard my scolding,” spits Mrs Curtis.  “I’ll leave yours to those two – Yan Zheng and Lan Fan.”

Ling nods dumbly and simmers in the tension, until Ed gives a mythic snore.

Mrs Curtis sinks into the chair at Ling’s side, appraising him sternly.  “Tell me what happened.”

“Someone attacked us, and we couldn’t fight back.”

Mrs Curtis holds up a hand.  “I mean with you.”

“You couldn’t understand,” says Ling.  “It’s grieving for people you never knew and wondering how long it’ll take to kill you.”

There’s a long, slow silence.

“I do understand,” says Mrs Curtis.

They sit like that for a long time, only shifting when a nurse enters and begins to fuss over Ling.  Mrs Curtis leaves somewhere between the new IV fluids and the next dose of pain relief.  The nurse leaves.

“I’m taking you to Resembool with me when we get out of here,” Ed says.  “I’ve already spoken to Lan Fan – she says Yan Zheng is just doing his job and that you should let him, by the way – and we should have a couple of weeks.”

“Why?”

“It’s a good place for grieving.”  He falters a second.  “And it’s my home, and you don’t deserve to feel like Xing is your only home because Amestris was Greed’s.”

That sounds okay, Ling thinks, falling back to sleep.

When he wakes, nobody is standing over him, and he is not alone.