[Fic] "At the Very Ports We Blow" (Premovie, 4/5)

[cryogenia]

Title: At the very ports we blow (Part 4 of 5)
Author: cryogenia
Pairing: None (gen)
Rating: R (rating has increased)
Prompt: For 7stages, set 3, #4: "draw a line in the sand"
Spoiler level: Post-series, pre-movie
Warnings for this fic: References to ethnic tensions, both fictional and historical

A/N: Huge chapter is huuuuge D: One more to go (I hope)! (And rest assured, I will post nothing else here until such time as this fic is complete :)

Part 1 - the effect of impact on stationary objects
Part 2 - the seed of the fire
Part 3 - i hear the electric shock


Over the next several days, the world increasingly resolved itself into one of two options: dead ends and more dead ends. Ed wandered from office to office on campus making inquiries, sounding professors out, asking hard questions about the physics program. Oberth had made it clear that he had pretty much given up on rocketry at the University of Munich; well, it was Elric family policy never to give up on anything that had so much as a breath of life left in it.

And the project Ed had been on -- admittedly one he was no longer privy to, but it served as an excellent example case -- had plenty of life in it. He could say one thing for Alfons, the man's methods were a pain but he did get results. As much as Ed hated to provide drafts of his ideas and work according to deadlines, Alfons's tight focus on the 'practical' meant that the various pieces of the whole came together predictably and well. Before his falling-out with the team, they had been on schedule to have a functioning scale model of their rocket, staging and all, ready for show in the not too far distant future. The technology was there. The technology was tantalizingly close, in fact.

Unfortunately, his options for funding it were growing few and far between. He didn't want Oberth to be right, but the more professors he consulted, the more he was beginning to realize that the man had a point. No one in the Experimental Physics department would see him. No one in the Theoretical Physics department would see him. Not even Oberth's direct adviser was willing to meet for the five minutes it would take to hear about the "exciting, budding field of rocketry" (as Ed has taken to calling it; a much catchier turn of phrase than "endeavors in exoatmospheric aeronautical engineering". Alfons and Oberth were cut from the same cloth, that much was obvious: neither could turn a phrase if it came with a steering wheel.) Ed had spent a frustrating week camping in cold hallways before someone had finally, kindly enlightened him as to what his problem was. It was the new director of Physics, apparently, who had seen fit to take from their sector's budget. Professor Wien, formerly in charge of the smaller Theoretical Physics department; newly promoted to the head post in the physics program in the wake of beloved Director Röntgen's recent, sudden departure.

It was a change Ed had scarcely noticed when it had happened a couple months before, but one that seemed to have had far-reaching effects over the entire department. Wien was no slouch, but Röntgen had been an extraordinary man to have as director - a true pioneer in the field of physics. He'd even won the first Nobel prize in the category. "Nobel prizes" were like the Green Lion awards back home, Hohenheim had explained to Ed, one of the highest honors an alchemist could receive. Wien had earned his own Nobel as well, but he also had big shoes to fill in the eyes of his new bosses, whom had selected him for his 'expert understanding of both leadership and fiscal matters'. The man was under pressure, it was hinted very heavily, to perform well out of the box and help staunch the bleed of monies from the department's loss-leading development sector.

In short, politics, Ed thought with disgust. The sorts of power plays and money-grubbing that Mustang had been forever mired in, and Ed and Al had stayed far, far away from. It was the business of policy makers to look out for their own best interests, while looking as though they were looking out for everyone else's, the colonel had been fond of saying. Here the old saw was, back to slice at him again: another parallel, and certainly an unpleasant one.

"But why waste materials running so many combustion trials? Can't you just work the thermodynamics out on paper?" one professor had wheedled when Ed had asked for help petitioning the new director. At the time he'd thought the man was being unreasonably obtuse. Now he thought he understood. Wien's passion lay with radiation, the mysteries of atoms and their properties - which had often been relegated to purely theoretical work in the past. Now that Wien was director, Ed couldn’t help but note that most of the more costly research that had been kept intact pertained to radiation and spectroscopy.

"Look out for your own best interests" indeed. Well, Ed believed in looking out for his own best interests too. He wasn't going to give up on what they had going here without first exhausting every weapon in his arsenal. He was going to get home. He could see the executioner's axe coming, but at least it meant he had a chance to fight back.

He wondered if Alfons knew the aeronautical program was being cut.

"Are you ready?" Hohenheim asked quietly, interrupting his thoughts. He did not touch him directly, but he reached one arm out to brush Edward's coat sleeve, bringing Ed's focus back to earth in a subtle way which Ed appreciated. They were standing in the atrium just outside the main offices of the physics department, a grand old chamber with polished floors and heavy, ornate doors to either side that looked nearly as formidable as the Gate itself. It was the very heart of the University's physics program and the doors banged open and shut constantly, beating, pumping young minds in to venerable researchers. It would not do to stand around lollygagging.

Ed looked one last time into the small pocket mirror his father had loaned him and adjusted his tie again, uncomfortable. The ugly, obstinant thing stuck out from his neck like a misplaced tail. He tried to straighten it and it swished out of the way yet again, earning his ire.

"Damn it! The stupid fetishes these people wear, I swear..."

His father gave him a pitying look and reached for the contrary fabric, which did not endear the thing to him further.

"Men wear ties in Amestris as well, you know," Hohenheim remarked quietly, keeping his voice down so not to be heard by curious passersby.

"Maybe four hundred years ago they did," Ed said, though with no real malice. The overpowering scent of cologne threatened to suffocate him as his father's hands came up toward his face, and Ed willed himself to stand firm. He held his breath as his father fiddled briefly with the knot and exhaled only after his father drew away.

"There," Hohenheim said, sounding pleased.

Ed looked in the compact mirror to see that his unruly fabric appendage was indeed lying flat now, an obedient stripe of brown down the center of his chest. His father's scent still lingered at the collar of his shirt. It reminded him of funeral flowers - cheerful, almost sickeningly sweet honeysuckle on the surface, but always underneath there was the dry, slightly sour reek of death.

He shuddered and handed the mirror back to his father.

"Thanks."

"My pleasure." His father slid the compact back into the snuff pocket of his jacket and straightened his own suit one last time. He looked at his pocket watch and winced.

"Come on," Hohenheim said. "The last thing we want is to be late."

Ed nodded and followed his father obediently through the forbidding doorway to their left and into a series of narrow, twisting corridors. It rankled to be lead around like a stupid child, but Ed swallowed his pride for once and let his father guide him. Any other day he might have tried to find his own way, or to move forward and take the lead, but at the moment he could ill afford to make a wrong turn. Professor Sommerfeld, the man they were here to see, had a reputation for appreciating punctuality and professionalism - and if there was one thing Ed had grudgingly learned from Mustang, it was that a good first impression was often clutch. He often wondered in retrospect if he would have ever thrown in his lot with the military if not for Colonel Mustang's fiery first impression: the very vision of Competence, Command, and most importantly, a Safe Haven and Solution stepping out from the flames he had used so precisely to immobilize the terrorists Ed was fighting.

He had been a bastard then too, right from the very start, but it had been too late for Ed to change his gut reaction. Luckily, the decision to trust the man had ultimately proved a good one. Ed could only hope Professor Sommerfeld would feel the same about him and his father after this meeting.

Hohenheim stopped suddenly before an oak door in the middle of the hall. It had a rectangular brass plate set into the wood, annoyingly at what must be considered proper eye-height. Ed craned his neck up to read the name etched into the plate, confirming that yes, they stood before the office of Prof. Arnold Sommerfeld, Dept. of Theoretical Physics. His father knocked twice, smartly, just above and to the right of where Edward was reading, and the lock turned so suddenly they both took a reflexive step back. Apparently, the professor had indeed been expecting them at ten 'o clock right on the nose.

They spared a moment to share brief, nearly identical sheepish grins before the sheer uncanniness of how -- similar -- they looked drove them each to turn away.

The door opened to reveal an older but muscular man, stocky, with a receding hairline and streaks of gray flecked all about his temples. Ed knew him instantly. He was one of the professors Alfons was often seen skulking about during lunch time, or on the few non-smoking 'smoke breaks' Alfons could be convinced to take. Ed licked his lips nervously, somewhat shocked. As a relative nobody on campus, he hadn't expected to recognize such a big name researcher.

"Professor," Hohenheim acknowledged with a polite nod, and that was when Ed realized he was staring. He bowed his head as well, then recognized his mistake and stuck out his hand. His father did not shake hands because of his 'sensitive skin', a minor eccentricity that was considered harmless but acceptable for a man of his apparent stature in the academic community. Ed, on the other hand, was posing as a regular student, and it was best that he blend in as much as possible.
Mentally, he kicked himself. One of these days he would remember that in this world, handshakes were used for both formal and informal greetings. The Amestrisian bow of respect did not apply.

"Good afternoon, professor," he said. "Sorry, I'm a lefty."

It was also annoying having to constantly excuse his reason for offering the wrong hand, but thankfully Sommerfeld didn't miss a beat. He switched around and gave Ed his own left. He had an incredibly powerful grip. Ed was almost glad he never offered his prosthetic; the way the man squeezed the bones of his human hand together, he’d hate to see what Sommerfeld could do to cheap plastics.

"Not to worry," the professor said cheerfully, in a high tenor that didn't seem fitting for his severe facial features. "Some of the best minds are wired backwards. Even the esteemed Mr. Einstein is a lefty, did you know that?"

Ed was beginning to think he was the only man in Germany without a giant moustache. Sommerfeld's was so massive, it could have put Major Armstrong's face-bush to shame.

“No sir, I didn’t,” he replied, hoping he wasn’t staring too obviously at the moustache. It quivered with every twitch of Sommerfeld’s lips. It was a strangely hypnotic sight.

“Well, I’ve shaken his hand myself, and I can assure you, he’s a lefty.” The professor winked jovially, which took some of the edge off his name-dropping.

"Now, come in, come in!" Sommerfeld said, and ushered Ed and Hohenheim into his office.

The senior department head of theoretical physics certainly got a lot more space than theoretically he needed, Ed thought to himself, then mentally winced. Al probably would have liked that pun. If his brother were here with him he might even have made it, just to entertain.

“Come in, sit down! It’s not much, but it’s cozy,” the man saying.

Not much?! Ed looked about the spacious office with its multiple bookshelves, expansive desk, even a large, squishy armchair, and for a moment righteous fire burned in him on Oberth's behalf. He forgot that he was cross with the man. A space like this could fit three times as many people, even with standard issue furniture and cabinets. Why had his adviser -- even if he was not yet a full professor, even if he was only lecturing as an assistant -- been shoved into the university equivalent of a closet!? It wasn’t right.

Something in his eye must have tipped his father off, because Hohenheim was suddenly at his side and frowning at him. He gave Ed the tiniest shake of his head, just enough to shake his wispy bangs back and forth across his forehead. Ed scowled right back at his father, trying to convey with his eyes and eyebrows what he knew he couldn't put into words right now.

I’m perfectly aware I’m being petty! I wasn't going to say anything to him, jeez. It hurt him sometimes to think his father could have so little faith in him.

Hurt him worse to think that once upon a time, he would have sworn up and down that he didn't care.

If Sommerfeld had noticed the little moment of tension between them, he didn't comment. Instead, he gestured to two chairs at a small rectangular conference table situated close to his desk and bade them have a seat. They did as instructed. Ed was somewhat impressed to see that Sommerfeld then went to bring his own office chair over to join them, rather than sit far away behind his huge desk. A personable fellow, Ed thought. He was starting to remember that he’d heard Sommerfeld had that reputation.

"So you're the esteemed Professor von Hohenheim," Sommerfeld said to Ed's father. From anyone else - from Alfons perhaps - it might have sounded like a challenge, but Sommerfeld's voice held nothing but idle curiosity. "I've heard great things about you."

"Likewise," his father replied. "Atombau und Spektrallinien was a magnificent piece of work."

Sommerfeld's eyebrows lifted. "You've read it?"

"Of course."

"Highly unusual for a professor of political science."

"I like to keep up with my institution's published works," Hohenheim said smoothly.

Ed shot his father a sharp look across the table. Political science? Chemistry, sure, he could have believed that as his father’s cover story, maybe even medicine, but...political science? He'd known his father had likely stolen his doppelganger's identity -- or rather, the doppelganger of the body his father's soul was currently inhabiting, as his soul was far, far older than any living man -- but he had heard nothing about his father being a professor of a soft science. He made a big mental note to grill the man about it later. There were far, far too many questions that Hohenheim just waved away when Ed tried get information about their life in Munich. Far too many things like this that Ed didn't know.

He doesn't trust me, Ed thought again, with an edge of despair, and then promptly pushed that hurt away too. It was neither the time, nor the place for it.

"It was an edifying read," Hohenheim told Sommerfeld, continuing to compliment his book. The man visibly preened - a review junkie as well as a name-dropper? "Your argument for Bohr's atomic model is extremely convincing."

"Yes, ah, I've read it too," Ed contributed lamely. Sometimes, he hated his father's greater command of Drachman. He couldn't come up with words like 'edifying' without a dictionary, even though he could understand them when used. It was endlessly frustrating.

Both the older men swiveled toward him when he spoke, and Ed shrank down in his chair just a little bit. Their eyes fixed on him at exactly the same time, and the effect was rather unnerving.

"Ah yes, Mister -- Elric, was it? I've heard great things about you as well." Sommerfeld's great moustache curled up at the edges, which was the only way Ed knew to look beneath it for the smile. "Why haven't I had you at lecture yet? I'm offering a general on thermodynamics right now."

"There were certain...prerequisite issues," Ed said carefully. Specifically, the fact that until a few months ago, he had not been enrolled at any institute for higher learning in this country at all. What scientific knowledge he had gained had come through writing copious amounts of letters, reading the available texts on the subject -- dawn till dusk, what sometimes felt like a never-ending game of catch-up. Ultimately it had been Oberth that had been his savior, the one who would send him anything he wished to read, the one who had urged him to come join his project officially.

Oberth, who was now planning to just pack up and move on, ready to start over and ply his thesis somewhere else. Casting Ed adrift, unable to follow without also having to start over. Ed had no proven expertise at all in this world, no academic history, no nothing...

Sometimes it felt like to live on “Earth” was to play a never-ending game of tag. Each time he caught up to whatever he was seeking, it winked at him and ran away.

"Prerequisite problems? Hm..." Sommerfeld clasped his thick hands in front of him. His big fingers were like sausages interlacing together. Ed remembered the man’s handshake and winced.

"You didn't have Properties of Matter and Heat with Professor Röntgen before he left, I take it?" Sommerfeld asked.

"No sir, unfortunately I did not have that opportunity."

Sommerfeld's thermodynamics seminars were only open to students who had first taken a certain course under the director himself. 'Prerequisite courses', another obnoxious institution Ed had come to hate. In Amestris, an alchemist could demonstrate working knowledge of a subject and moonlight into any state academy classes. Ed had done just that several times in Central, until it had become apparent he'd be better off teaching the damn class himself.

"Well, that won't do," Sommerfeld pronounced. "Director Wien's slated to take over M&H next fall, but that wastes the whole spring semester for you...tell you what, if you're interested, I'd be willing to tutor you on the side."

Ed thought of Oberth's many promises to tutor him - how many of those had ultimately been broken, in favor of the man's own research? - and a tightness came into his throat.

"That's a very kind offer," he said, a little strangled. Again, annoyingly, his father seemed to read his mind. Hohenheim gave him a brief, sympathetic look across the table.

Sommerfeld beamed. "Well, I enjoy working with talented young men. Chemistry is not my chosen field, but the thermodynamics work you've done in association shows a lot of promise. Mr. Heiderich has showed me some of the theory you've come up with - it shows a lot of promise."

"Alfons did?!" If Ed had sounded strangled before, his voice was positively wretched now.

"Yes, of course," Sommerfeld's bushy eyebrows raised. "You two are in a special projects seminar together, are you not? He's been keeping me abreast of the research his team is doing."

"Professor Sommerfeld runs a number of unofficial extra-curricular activities for students in his lecture courses," Hohenheim explained. "He's been kind enough to meet with young people outside of the classroom to provide additional instruction, entirely of his own volition. Tutors them without pay. He also sponsors a lot of special projects seminars."

"Please, you make it seem more than it is. I just enjoy the company of my students and colleagues."

A lot of pieces suddenly clicked into place.

"You meet Alfons for lunch," Ed said.

"Sometimes, yes," Sommerfeld replied. "Young Mr. Heiderich does rather tend to work like a dog, as the colloquialism goes. Do tell him I miss him, next time you see him? I haven't seen him at all this past week."

"...sure," Ed said at length. From the way Sommerfeld was talking, it was apparent he hadn't yet heard about the great falling-out. Elric-family tradition again, it wasn't technically lying if he promised to tell Alfons the next time he saw him…even if hopefully that would be never.

He was aware of his father's eyes on him again, but he ignored them. Finally, he had an explanation! When Ed had finally run out of options and gone to his father for help, as usual the man had merely nodded and said that he would 'see what he could do'. The next Ed had heard of it, Hohenheim had woken him up and told him they had a meeting with Dr. Sommerfeld. He had wondered why his father was taking him to meet with yet another professor - honestly, he'd been hoping for face time with the new director - but now he thought he saw what Hohenheim aiming for.

His father had found him a new mentor, since Oberth was leaving.

A highly-esteemed full doctor for a mentor to be exact, one with ties to many important figures in the physics world. Sommerfeld might not be into rocketry himself, but he might be able to persuade others to support Ed's research here. If he got in good with this man, had Sommerfeld speak on behalf of the aeronautical program...with his connections, Sommerfeld might prove an even more powerful ally than Oberth.

Whatever he did, he couldn't afford to blow this.

"If you wouldn't mind, sir," Ed said to Sommerfeld, choosing his words as carefully as possible, "I would love to take supplementary lessons from you. A-as you may have heard, my education was interrupted by the Great War, and I have certain gaps in my knowledge that-"

Hohenheim cleared his throat a little and Ed fell silent, recognizing his cue to shut up.

"Yes, Edward would love to discuss the particular research that he has been conducting. He is, unfortunately, currently in need of a sponsor to continue it. Mr. Oberth had been in charge of the aeronautical development program, but I've recently heard that he intends to pursue other opportunities."

Sommerfeld nodded. "Yes, I'd heard Mr. Oberth was leaving. Shame," he said, in a voice that didn’t at all sound like he thought it was a shame.

"Edward is looking for someone who might be interested in helping with the aeronautical program in Mr. Oberth's stead," Hohenheim continued. "The prototypes he has designed -"

"- helped design," Ed muttered softly, professional sensibilities preventing him from stealing all the credit.

"Of course, helped design," his father recanted, "are very nearly complete."

Sommerfeld stroked his moustache for several long moments looking thoughtful, and Ed's heart was suddenly beating rapidly. Sommerfeld was taking his sweet time thinking about it, yes…but the man hadn't said 'no' out of hand like all the professors Ed had been able to speak to had. He was struck with the wild, inappropriate urge to hug his father.

"With faculty sponsorship," Ed chimed in, "I could have a prototype to demonstrate within a few months. I would be more than happy to run the complete design by you first, if that's what it takes. I know the department is very particular about proposals, and I am willing to explain my need for each and every last resource. But I swear to you, Professor, rocket technology is possible in the very immediate future --"

Sommerfeld held up a hand. Ed cut off mid-sentence.

"Yes, yes, your ideas are very sound," the man said. "I've looked at your proposed plan for fueling the device, and your mathematical proofs all seem to check out. Your theories are indeed possible to test."

"Wait...I didn't send any--" Ed blinked. He automatically looked to his father.

"I took the liberty of forwarding the good professor some of your presentation materials already," Hohenheim said. He looked a touch uncomfortable. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," Ed said woodenly, though of course he did mind; he was possessive of his research and presenting it was his show -- but it would not be appropriate for him to admit that, not when his father had already done him such a huge favor. The annoyance simmered but he kept a lid on it.

"I appreciate it."

Sommerfeld stroked his moustache again, looking thoughtful.

"Well, as I said, your ideas hold merit. And I understand what you're aiming for with this meeting: you want me to go to the director because Oberth didn't have the clout make things happen for you - no, no, don't apologize, it happens all the time," he said, just as Ed opened his mouth to protest.
"If I had a mark for every time someone wanted me to put my name to something, I wouldn't bother with this lousy tenure pay. Eh, Professor?"

That rather arrogant remark was direct at Hohenheim, who fielded it gracefully. Ed was distinctly beginning to get the impression that this man enjoyed being at the top of the social food chain.

"Indeed," Hohenheim said dryly. "Bad enough this inflation dogs us without having the university jackals nipping at our heels."

"They're making cuts across the board," Sommerfeld clarified to Ed. "The University is only paying half what it used to for professors to lecture - we're having to do twice as much work to get the same pay. Contrary to popular belief, students aren't the only ones suffering from the budget problems."

Sommerfeld's eyes narrowed hard on Ed, and Ed was suddenly aware he was under the microscope, being scrutinized like a bacterium - or perhaps some even lower life form than that, the way Sommerfeld's voice sounded next.

"That would be why I have to ask," the man said, his voice laden with disapproval, "why is it that you're asking for your own team in your proposal? I'd thought you were working with Mr. Heiderich in Oberth's special projects seminar."

Ed sucked down hard on his lip, mind racing, trying to think of what to say. He hadn't expected Sommerfeld to actually know who he was -- not the great Sommerfeld, world-class researcher, big name on campus; the man whose low-level general lectures were only open if you first took other courses. He certainly hadn't expected Sommerfeld to know Alfons, either. He looked over at his father again, but Hohenheim simply stared helplessly back, looking uncomfortable, fiddling with his coat sleeves. His father's scent was beginning to grow overpowering even in this large room, and Ed wondered suddenly how much longer it could before Hohenheim would have to excuse himself and run away out into fresher air.

Which would leave Ed alone to face the music.

"Alfons...Alfons doesn't know I'm asking this of you," Ed said. It was a half-truth again, but better than the embarrassing complete story. "I'm not sure if he'd approve or not. I just don't know what else to do -" - and damn, damn, double-damn his voice cracked on that note, he hated sounding so young all the time - " - I don't want to lose the headway I've made here by following Oberth. Going to Heidelberg and starting over doesn't make any sense. This is a good school, and my father is here..."

He trailed off, not sure what else he could safely say. His father was giving him a curious look, a touched look, and that was uncomfortable too. Ed turned his face away.

Sommerfeld was looking at him as well, with an expression that was somehow both exasperated and amused at the same time. Ed thought of the Colonel for the second time that day.

"You young men," the man laughed. "Always in such a hurry. I envy your vigor, but perhaps not the youthful indiscretion."

Ed watched with a sinking heart as Sommerfeld stood up and walked to his humongous desk, pulled out a deep drawer that looked as though it went on forever. He extracted a thick envelope and opened it, pulling out a familiar schematic. Ed realized it must be the materials his father had sent. His eyes flicked over to Hohenheim and his father gave him a pained, sheepish grin…again, so very eerily like his own.

Sommerfeld pulled out a second brown file folder and laid it next to the first, a little smile lingering on his face.

"You two are so very much alike," Sommerfeld said, staring out at them across the room, and for a moment Ed stiffened, thinking Sommerfeld was talking about himself and Hohenheim. Then Sommerfeld opened the second folder and held up a thick ream of blue-and-white grid paper, waggled it in Ed's direction. It was hard to make out exactly what the top sheet said from where he sat, but Ed thought he recognized that precise, spidery handwriting across a requisition form.

It was Alfons's.

"You and Mr. Heiderich both seem to approach this project as if it is your last and only chance to ever build your rocket ship," Sommerfeld snorted. "That couldn't be further from the truth."

He set the papers down hard and came around to the front of his desk, folded his arms crossly.

"I'm not sure if you're aware, but Mr. Heiderich has already been after me for ages for this and that, trying to get resources that your adviser can't approve. I'll admit, my patience has grown a little thin."

The man blew a puff of air up through his moustache, fanning the wiry hairs out over his lip. "Mr. Elric...you boys have to understand, it's just a seminar. A lot of seminar projects fall apart after the semester is over, or when the professor leaves. You two are both pursuing doctorates, are you not? I promise you, if you make full doctor, you will have a whole world of time and resources with which to pursue your pet projects."

"I know how frustrating it is to be young and ambitious, but you have to understand. Sometimes we have to wait for the things we want," Sommerfeld added, not unkindly.

No, you don't understand, Ed thought angrily. His fingers curled themselves into fists beneath the table, unbidden. I've already been waiting my whole life for this. Al's been waiting. His breath hissed in and out of him, whistling through the little gap in his front teeth; he felt like an angry snake.

As he was pondering how to put his feelings into words - if there was anything he could say at all - his father reached over and nudged his elbow beneath the table. Sudden warmth welled up within his chest, and the sickness churning in his gut eased despite the reek of Hohenheim's cologne. His father touched people so rarely, out of necessity, that even that small gesture was touching.

Newly fortified, Ed continued. "You said yourself the project has merit. Why shouldn't we be pursuing it as a student project? I've looked into it, I can scale things down next semester - there was a lot of waste in the initial stages of the project, but my method is pretty much streamlined now." Alfons's method, really, but Sommerfeld didn't have to know that.

"And we're close," he said desperately. "We're close to building something that can really break through the atmosphere, I know it."

For the moment, all thought that he was on his own, that technically he didn't have a team, none of that mattered. What mattered was that Sommerfeld just believe him.

Sommerfeld sighed again and folded his arms once more, though his posture was looser this time, visibly more open. Hohenheim and Ed exchanged cautiously hopeful glances.

"God in heaven, you two really don't quit, do you?" the man sighed. It was unclear if he meant Hohenheim and Ed or Ed and Alfons, but either way, the comment bolstered Ed’s spirit. He could not be sure if it was wishful thinking or not, but he thought he detected a hint of admiration in the man's bright tenor.

"All right, let me ask you this - if you are so interested in space travel, then why aren't you working more with the theoreticals involved? Professor Röntgen was offering a course last semester on special relativity. Where were you?"

His father fielded that one for him before Ed could snap at Sommerfeld for being an idiot, for which Ed was eternally grateful. Hadn’t Sommerfeld listened to him at all earlier?

"As previously mentioned," Hohenheim said quietly. "Edward has not been with the university for long. Owing to the war."

"Yeah," Ed chimed in. "I came in at the tail end of last semester. I don't know about Alfons, but I would have loved to take that course."

"There's another being offered next fall," Sommerfeld said gruffly.

"Then I'll sign up for it," Ed lied. He didn't want to tell the man, not when Sommerfeld obviously supported it, how very much he hated Einstein's theory of relativity. Space travel, other worlds -- they had proof by telescope that other planets existed in this strange little solar system. They could send a rocket out in search of them, Ed knew it was possible, if only they could break free from stubborn gravity. Maybe find his own world by doing so. But relativity...

If there is no absolute reference frame - if Einstein is right - then traveling at the speed of light to get home would mean that time slows for me.

Al would be dead long before he ever reached Amestris.

Or worse - much worse - it would mean that universe functioned differently altogether. If energy had to be conserved here, when it didn't in Amestris, land of alchemy, that implied the two worlds were fundamentally dissimilar. Ed already knew the Gate was the source of Amestris’s spare energy -- the Gate which was currently off limits to him, of course. But there had to be some way to get back to it, or around it, or past it...Ed just knew it. If he used the technology of this world -- if he built a vessel, if he could accelerate himself fast enough, if he could just do something -- perhaps he could find some way to break free from the laws that governed this place.

His disgust at thinking of Einstein and his relatively annoying theory must have been evident on his face, because Sommerfeld's own expression soured once more.

"You do realize that's part of your problem, don't you?" the older man asked. "I don't know if you're aware, as you haven't been with the University long, but this institution prides itself on theoretical advances. Some of the most ground-breaking work in physics in human history has been done here of late, deepening humankind's knowledge into the nature of how our world works: the structure of the atom, the nature of radiation, the secrets of so many of nature's mysteries. Setting off projectiles...it's fascinating stuff, but the experiments you have been doing seem only to be designed to test how far you can shoot something into the air."

"Gravity," Ed ground out. "The nature of vacuums - if space really is a vacuum. There are any number of your 'theories' we could help advance if we can get into space. Is that what this is about? You would rather we push pencils and doodle mathematical problems than prove this can be done? I don't know if you're aware, but this aeronautical has a number of potential experimental and practical uses. Can you imagine planes powered by the engines that we've designed there?" He flicked a finger toward Sommerfeld's desk, the stack of proposals sitting forlornly on top. "Can you imagine sending a man into space? You want to talk about vision, well, maybe you should take the plank out of your own eye."

"Edward..." his father said beside him, sounding concerned. Ed ignored his outstretched hand and bolted up from his chair, staring directly into Sommerfeld’s eyes.

"You're the one being short-sighted here," Ed breathed. "But fine, if you don't want a part of this, I'll go somewhere else. Not sure where, but I'll go."

Sommerfeld's mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments. His face turned a bit purple around the edges. Ed balled his fists up and stood firm, certain any minute now he was about to get screamed at.

The expected tirade did not come.

"...you have guts, boy, I'll give you that," Sommerfeld said after a long moment. He ran a shaky hand through his thinning hair, obviously still struggling with some kind of emotion. Ed waited, glowering, until the older man composed himself. "I don't think I've had someone call me out in my own office for years."

Hohenheim made a noise next to him as he rose from his own chair. His smell was really starting to get noxious, Ed realized distantly. His father was going to have to go soon, or the cologne wouldn't be enough to cover the stench of indoor rot any longer.

"Professor, my son didn't mean-"

Sommerfeld shook his head. "No, he meant it, all right."

And then, impossibly, he smiled.

"All right," he said to Ed, stepping back behind his desk. He began gathering up the papers, putting them back into their respective files in a business-like manner. "I'll sponsor your project for next semester."

Relief crashed over Ed so hard, he thought he might fall. "Thank you, Professor, you have no idea what this means to--"

Sommerfeld held up a hand again. "On one condition."

Ed licked his lips. "Anything."

"I want to see you in more of my classes next semester. I want to see theory out of you, I want to see more of how you think. You've got good ideas, I won't go back on that, but there are also lots of things you need to brush up on. Maybe meet me for lunch sometime. I meant what I said about tutoring you, you know."

"Sure, of course."

"And I want you to prove to me these experiments you two are running aren't frivolous," Sommerfeld said. He put the folders back into his cavernous desk drawer and slammed it shut. "Mr. Heiderich has already sworn up and down that you'll have something to show at the exhibition at the end of the semester. I want proof that you're committed to more than just blowing things up."

He gave Ed a brief wink, a hint of his former good humor returning.

"Otherwise, you might want to seek out the chemistry department for help. If it's just combustion you're looking for, I know a number of colleagues there who remember what it's like to be a young man interested in consuming university resources to explode things."

Ed could feel his ears growing hot.

"I assure you, sir, this project has everything to do with physics. The combustion reactions involved are sheerly to power the rocket's flight -"

A thought occurred to him.

"Wait - Alfons? I thought I was to have my own team now?"

Sommerfeld's bushy eyebrows waggled. "And when did I say that? I said I was giving you two a chance to prove yourselves. There's no point to having two separate teams working on this, that's sheer idiocy. Waste of resources."

No, no, no... Ed wrung his hands together. "But we aren't--"

"Aren't what?" Sommerfeld's eyes gleamed, and Ed felt the world start to pull out from beneath him. He had been so close...and now he was back to being fucked over again, and it was all his own damn fault.

“If you’re not together, that’s your own fault. Just go join up again,” Sommerfeld said. Ed had absolutely no words for him.

Distantly, he heard the noise of someone moving behind him. He had to check over his shoulder to make sure it was his father and not Irony coming to bite him in the butt.

Figures. I come up with a solution to one problem, and it depends upon me solving another.

"Go back to your group and tell them that if you all finish your purported objective for this semester, I will help sponsor you for the next," Sommerfeld said. He went over to one of his bookshelves and pulled out a thick volume, began paging through it. Ed and his father were clearly dismissed.

Ed looked up at his father helplessly and Hohenheim shrugged back, similarly at a loss.

"What was your objective?" his father asked quietly.

Ed swallowed hard.

"To create a working model of the rocketcraft," he said, almost at a whisper.

He had just saved the group he was no longer working with. For the second time in as many weeks, Ed almost wanted to cry.

Sommerfeld cleared his throat somewhere behind them.

"Gentlemen? If you'll excuse me..."

"Of course," Hohenheim said. He pressed the flat of his large, wide hand gently against Ed's back, urging him toward the door. "Come along, son."

Ed followed him numbly, his mind still reeling from how hard that plan had backfired in his face. It was why, when Sommerfeld called out again, he very nearly missed it.

"By the way, Professor Hohenheim..." Sommerfeld said in a strange voice, his jubilant tenor oddly subdued.

Ed felt his father stop as a sudden lack of pressure on his shoulder blades, as Hohenheim's hand left his back. He looked back over his shoulder to see his father standing stock still - he had not even turned around when Sommerfeld had called his name.

"Yes?" his father responded quietly.

"The next time you see our mutual friends..." Sommerfeld said. He sounded vaguely uneasy. "Would you tell Professor Haushofer that I will not be at his villa this fortnight. I am flattered he'd invite me, but..."

"It's Professor Hess, right?" Hohenheim said, and there was something dark in his voice.

"Yes," Sommerfeld said. His face lit up, but not with happy recognition. "You can do that, right? I’ve heard they hold you in high regard. See to it that he doesn't come around again. I appreciate their hospitality, but some of the things I've heard Hess purport..."

"I understand," Hohenheim said. His jaw tightened a bit. "I'll take care of it. Consider your resignation submitted."

"Thank you," Sommerfeld said, and he looked at Ed's father then with what Ed could only think of as 'desperate admiration'. He had seen that expression before - on the face of miners trapped in tunnels, children hiding from explosions, any number of people he had been coming to save. "Any port in a storm", the Xingians said, one of their ocean-metaphors, and it was true. When people were afraid, they would grasp at any straw they could.

"Come along, Edward," his father said again, harshly, and Ed followed dutifully after, quiet for the moment. His father did not put a hand to his back again, nor did his expression make it seem like he was open to discussing what had just transpired.

Ed followed him out in to the chilly, winding hallways, and wondered again how exactly his father had landed this meeting this morning, and what kind of price he had just paid.

***

He parted ways with his father not long after they exited the physics building, wanting to be alone with his thoughts. Unsurprisingly, Hohenheim did not protest. It seemed his father was no more eager to talk than he was. They stood there outside the big doorway entrance for a few moments, neither one saying a word, and then after a few moments Hohenheim just started walking down the buildings' steps and drifted away down the sidewalk out front, leaving a honeysuckle trail behind him on the wind.

Ed set out himself a few moments after, following the sidewalk in the opposite direction, headed in an arc to the northwest. The road here at the center of campus curved around in a circular roundabout, and Ed followed it headlong into the bitter wind, his human hand thrust deep into the gap of his wool jacket.

Thoughts rattled about in his mind with a ferocity that was almost physically painful. He was certain he could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. Ed rubbed his temples with the chill fingers of his prosthetic hand; when that didn't work, he pinched them.

Irony, pure and simple, had brought him to his knees; somewhere, somehow, the gods he swore he didn't believe in must be laughing at him. Ed was starting to wonder if there was a point to atheism after all. The Gate had always existed, and it existed whether he believed in it or not. It had been there when he was eleven and ignorant; it had been there when he was sixteen and desperate. It had just been there. Maybe if he had believed in the existence of hell when he'd first dared to tamper in the realm of the gods, of the Other that was unblinking dark eyes and endless oceans of dead, yellow light -- well fuck, who was he kidding, he still would have tried it anyway. That was the real 'hell' of it, he thought, laughing silently to himself, with an expression more like a scream.

I never fucking learn.

The question now was what to do with the shitty hand he had dealt himself. That was the one good thing about atheism, not believing in lies like fate or luck. As much as it pained him, he had ownership of this mistake (ownership won with his left and right fist, he recognized ruefully, in retrospect he wished he'd battled with wits) but at least that meant he also had control of it. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse to have been the cause of one's own downfall, but at least the situation was not beyond human ability.

Comprehension, Destruction, Reconstruction. The three tenets of alchemy, the three pillars that held up his entire world. If man could destroy something, then with sufficient understanding, man could also rebuild it.

For now, he determined what he needed was understanding. Sommerfeld had said he would support Ed's team (really Alfons's team, Ed reminded himself with a snort) only if they could meet their special project seminar's purported semester goal -- firing a functional model of their rocket. That was one truth. That he was currently not part of said group, at least in part because of his own actions, was another. Looking back, what he had done to his relationships within the group was the equivalent of Scar and his sad, oblivious form of alchemy -- mindless destruction, without understanding or purpose, and in the end it had defeated him. Ed had fought Scar with Understanding, and in the end, he had won. Perhaps he could do the same here.

First, he had to ascertain if the group had a chance of making good on their promise, period.

He tried not to think of anything other than that.

The main campus melted away, turned into the park road. Ed walked along muddy rises and past naked trees, into the market streets and then out, past green grocers and street vendors and gypsy women spreading their wares on brightly colored blankets. Butterflies the size of sparrows winged their way throughout his midsection, but his feet continued carrying him unerringly to that street on the cusp of the ghetto. Their warehouse was but one among the many crammed here on the last street of the old industrial district, a drab, tired old giant. Ed paused at the front door before slinking like a thief around to the loading dock.

Comprehension, he reminded himself firmly. It took wits and courage in order to understand. In this case, the courage to face up to what he had done wrong.

Thankfully, what luck he did have (though he didn't believe in it), brought him a boon. By chance, he spied a familiar face alone out under the eaves, sucking on a cigarette, his watercress sandwich fisted in one hand. He must have arrived just at lunch hour.

A happy chance, or rotten luck? Either way, it was a coincidence he could use.

"Hey...Jean..." Ed called out reluctantly. He raised one hand nervously to wave.

Jean's eyes darkened, and he pulled the cig out of his mouth just long enough to spit on the ground in front of him.

Ed's outstretched arm faltered, and fell.

"It won't do you any good," Jean said. His eyes were like ice, though the smoke hissing out from his lips gave the illusion of inner fire. A slumbering dragon, waiting to bite. "He's not here."

Ed felt something wrench hard inside him. Jean -- patient Jean -- who looked so much like Havoc and always was so kind to him...even Jean...

"No, no, don't you run away from me!" the Frenchman said, as Ed slowly turned away. "Hey!"

"I thought you didn't want to talk to me."

"Who says I don't want to talk to you?" Jean tossed his still-lit smoke stick to the ground and crushed it beneath one heavy boot. When he reared his head back, the fire that poured from his mouth was formed of words.

"Believe me, buster, I've got plenty of things to say to you."

Comprehension, Ed reminded himself again, and then, I deserve this.

"Okay, shoot," Ed said, almost at a whisper. He cast his eyes down at the muddied, cobblestone street. He dared not look up and see the Frenchman's expression.

"What do you want from me?"

"What do I want from you?!" Jean barked. He laughed once, harshly, a twisted expression on his face. Ed thought he recognized that laugh-scream. "I wanted you to stop being an idiot a week ago!"

"I'm sorry," Ed said, and his chest constricted because he really was sorry. It hurt with how sorry he was, his heart and head ached physically. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry -"

"Well, 'sorry' isn't good enough! Fuck," the Frenchman swore. His fingers twitched and he pressed them back to hips, swore again when he remembered there was no cigarette there. "You know what you did, when you left? You put us six weeks behind, at least! You and your stupid bloody distillations...you couldn't have left us any instructions? In the right fucking language? Alfons is the only one of us that knows enough English, and he's been reading your bloody notes for the past week now and he still doesn't know what the hell to do with it. Which puts us even more behind, because he isn't here."

"...oh," Ed said. Comprehension had dawned in full - exactly what he had wanted, but still, it was a bitter pill to swallow. The warehouse loomed over them like a monolith, a vicious, hateful presence. No longer a home.

The Frenchman sighed and pulled out another cigarette, lit it with shaky hands.

"Oh, hell," Jean said, looking uncomfortable. He inhaled deeply, and the butt of his smoke flared bright-hot, a pinpoint of light in the warehouse's shade. "Look, okay..."

"What?" Ed said quietly, trying to brace himself. If Jean wanted to yell at him some more, so be it. The man had every right to, Ed supposed, it was his team at stake and Ed had inconvenienced them. The Frenchman, Dorchett, everyone...it seemed he'd upset everybody somehow, even though he hadn't really mean to.

I only ever meant to fight with Alfons! he wanted to protest. Never the others. But they were the ones getting hurt, from the sound of it.

How was it he had he forgotten there were others involved in this project too, others with hopes and dreams and fears? How had he forgotten it wasn't just about him and Alfons, struggling against each other.

"I wasn't going to tell you this, I was going to keep my fool nose out of it, but...Edward, we're between a rock and Wien's hard head. I don't know if you know this, but the whole program's in danger, we need every last man we can get."

Edward found it hard to speak past the lump in his throat, the lump in his stomach, invisible, heavy coals weighing his entire being down.

"Yeah, I heard..." he finally managed.

Not enough, apparently. "Dammit, LOOK AT ME!" Jean's cry was so anguished, so unexpected, that Ed jerked his eyes up reflexively. The man was staring right at him, and there was none of the ice this time - just clear, piercing blue eyes gazing down at him desperately.

"Edward, we need you," the Frenchman said. "Alfons won't tell you that, but we do. Please, for the love of God, can you two end this already? Make up."

Irrational frustration welled up again, and Ed resisted the urge to snarl at the man. He had seen this look once today already, this fear, this terror. Jean was looking to him as a last, best hope; that spoke volumes already for the team's chances of finishing this project on time.

They're not going to make it.

Anger boiled and snapped. Damn it, this just wasn't fair.

"It's no use anyway," Ed said bitterly. "Alfons won't hear my apology. I know him, he's stubborn; it's what got us into trouble in the first place. I'm sorry I dumped on you all but I know I wasn't imagining it that he doesn't like me, he thinks he knows better than me, he never wanted me on the team. Dammit, Jean, the two of us just don't get along - why the hell would you want us to work together? We'd only make your lives miserable."

"Oh come off it! Alfons, Alfons is stubborn?! C'est la poêle qui se moque du chaudron," Jean replied angrily, firing out a puff of cigarette smoke.

Ed blinked. The words were smooth and foreign to his ear, rippling and vaguely silky. Whatever language it was, it had a very flowing rhythm to it.

"French," Jean said, in response to Ed's blank look. "Yes, genius, I do speak it." He took another harsh drag on his cigarette, causing it to curl visibly back toward his fingers. "You and Alfons aren't the only ones to know fancy foreign languages, you know. Got this one at my mother's teat. Contrary to popular belief, we mortal men aren't all stupid."

The man coughed smoke and went on, thumping himself briefly across the chest. "I never meant to imply you were the only one at fault. Is that the way it is, with you geniuses? Always have to be the hero, always have to be top dog in the pack. You and Alfons, you two go off and have some fight - in English, none of us fucking understand it - then you punch him and light off, and that's the last we hear from either of you for damn near a week. Well, to hell with that. If I were in charge I'd sack the lot of you, but I can't, because damn it we need you, we need your brains, and you think I like having to admit that?!"

"Jean..."

"But at least I can admit it, and that's the important part." The man dropped his cigarette butt and smashed it viciously, right next to the previous one. They looked like twin pale eyes in the mud, sullied and filmy with mud.

"You two, you're smart, but neither one of you can admit when you're wrong and I'm damn well tired of it."

Ed just stood there, frozen in the wind, staring back at Jean. A number of thoughts careened through his mind, clamoring for attention. A fight in English, that no one understood...but Alfons had reamed him out in Drachman... Except that Alfons had switched back to English before the end, hadn't he? He wasn't actually sure he knew the word for 'spy' in Drachman, how could he have understood the accusation? Ed wasn't sure how to feel, that after all that panic about being ousted forever for being English - for any number of the things Alfons had leveled at him - he might actually be safe.

He also wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that his command of Drachman might be even worse than he had previously thought.

"So you didn't..." Ed swallowed hard, trying to figure out how to phrase the question without repeating the accusation (especially since he most definitely could not come up with 'spy' in his Drachman vocabulary). "You didn't know what we were arguing about?"

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea," the Frenchman snorted. "We all have a pretty good idea, especially after you went off on poor Dor. Alfons was telling you not to be such an ass - cause you can be, when you want to be. My point is, the both of you have been asses recently, and if Alfons was here right now I'd tell him just the same."

Jean lowered his voice conspiratorially.

"I wasn't going to tell you this either, but the reason I went to you before? Was because I hoped maybe you had an ounce of common sense in that great big brain of yours." The Frenchman leaned back against the wall and glowered. "Alfons, he's a great guy, but he can't handle people contradicting him all the time. All you had to do was lay low, stop questioning his authority every step of the way. He'll stop arguing with you if keep your trap shut unless it's important."

The word "authority" set off another twinge in the headache that was building behind Ed's eye sockets, and he curled back his lip like the dog of the military that he once had been.

"Sometimes authority needs to be questioned," he retorted.

"Sure, if it's relevant, but...about Einstein? Classic literature? The price of tea in China? I wasn't kidding when I said you two go on like my old man and lady. I don't care who starts it, I don't care who finishes it, I just want to come here and maybe accomplish something in a day’s work. I'm not like you two, I'm not as smart as you two, I can't keep up with all your stupid arguments; but what I especially can't hack is the two of you at each other's throats."

"Just...just apologize long enough to give him the translation, all right? Please. For me. I know you may not think much of me, you may not even like me -"

"That's not true," Ed protested, "of course I like you, you're fun, you let me bum smokes, you're like--"

Just like Jean Havoc, he wanted to say, but he trapped the words on the edge of his tongue, swallowed them. This wasn't fair to either of them, no matter how much they were alike. The Jean here was his first, only friend in this world -- besides his father, whom he wasn't sure how to classify. Jean was taking the time to help him comprehend what he was doing wrong, and to help him put it right. He owed it to the man to see something more to him than just a familiar face.

“You’re like a friend to me. I mean, you are my friend. I consider you a friend, at least,” Ed was aware that his argument was wilting fast, but he had to say something, damn it!

The Frenchman gave him an exasperated sigh. He clapped one hand down on Ed's shoulder though, and gave it a brief, comforting squeeze. Ed blinked and turned his head to stare at the place where their bodies were now connected. From what he had observed, the people here hardly ever touched each other. Perhaps it was Jean's other culture at work.

Jean released him and stepped back, a ghost of his regular smile playing on his face.

"Just help him understand what you were doing at least, please? He won't like it -- hell, I'd pay good money to see his face when you show up to give lecture to him -- but Alfons isn't entirely unreasonable. You can leave after that if you want to, no one's keeping you. To be honest, I'm not sure all of the guys would have you back. Certainly not without Alfons's approval. But for me...if I'm your pal at all, help me out here. We're getting down to the wire."

"Okay," Ed whispered. "Can do. What's his address?"

The Frenchman tilted his head and gave him a good, hard look. "What?"

"I'm going to go apologize," Ed repeated slowly. It was vaguely frustrating, usually Jean was smarter than this. "If he's not here, I need to figure out how to find him. Is he on campus, or would it be easier for me to find him at home?"

Jean looked a bit uneasy. "Well, I can guarantee you if he's not at lecture or in here, he's at home. Sometimes he goes off for lunches, but...not like that man takes a vacations with his sweetheart or anything like that. But I don't know if I should be giving out his home address..."

Ed sighed.

"I'm not going to go beat him up again, if that's what you're worried about. I'm supposed to be apologizing, remember?"

And now Jean's traditional easy-going smirk reappeared in full, and he laughed, a high, raucous sound. His laugh was infectious; even Ed smiled a little.

"Well, you can't blame a guy for worrying, can you? Especially after the way you laid him out, sweet Mary, you've got a mean right hook. My old man, I thought he could hit hard - you got a good one up on him in my book now."

"...thanks," Ed said, not sure how to deal with this unexpected admiration. "Can I have the address now, please?"

The Frenchman described the intersection that Ed would need to look for, a little three way roundabout a few kilometers away. It was in a nice section of town, he claimed. Ed repeated the street names over and over in his head until he thought he had them solidly memorized. Ed thanked him and turned to head off, his head high once more, an Elric on a mission.

"Good luck, mon capitane!" Jean called after him in an amused voice.

Ed froze. He couldn't tell for sure - it was all he could do to be fluent in one foreign language - but something about Jean's tone...if that was a cognate like it sounded it was...

"What did you just call me...?" he asked. His voice sounded gruff even to his own ears, and he winced.

Jean rubbed the back of his head, looking embarrassed. His eyes darted right and left, checking to see if anyone else was about before he answered.

"Nothing, it's just...you reminded me of my old man, marching off to do battle. Not that he fought in the Great War or anything!" the Frenchman amended hastily. "He was a joke, served a while and then quit. That was the highest rank he ever could have made - captain - so my old lady and I, we gave him crap about it. Believe you me, the biggest battle he's ever seen was with the guy across town who's undercutting his prices on house wares. Forget I mentioned it."

Jean had a bit of a wild look in his eyes, the look of a man who has just realized he'd slipped a secret and now it was too late to take it back. He had spoken French to Ed, in a show of solidarity - but that meant Ed now knew.

Ed had a secret too. For the moment, it threatened to rise up and swallow him.

"Sure..." Ed managed to wave back, fighting back that tears that burned within his eyes. "Don't worry about it." He took off at a fast pace, jogging down the street, before Jean could say the endearment again.

Comprehension.

I never learn, Ed thought as he ran. Not about people, not from his own mistakes, not even the nature of God. Because God did exist, God had to. How else could it be that despite all expectation - despite how much he tried to see Jean as a separate person from Havoc, despite how much he tried to believe the crazy laws of 'physics' didn't govern this oddball world -- the evidence mounted against him anyway, because he was not all-knowing, he was not all-seeing. He did not have the power to control his life, because even when he thought he had control, things always wound up going topsy-turvy in the end.

Boss.

Mon Capitane.

And yet despite that, Ed was running onward, navigating on auto-pilot, hearing Havoc/Jean/whatever-he-was in his head, he couldn't help but start to laugh.

I never fucking learn, he thought, and the laughter turned to gasping howls, the sting of the cold wind summoning tears, and the street people and regular people alike gave him wide berth, this sweaty, laughing, crying madman.

There was a God, and surely He hated him. All these years later and Ed was still running off to make deals with the Devil, thinking that someday, he could be free.

**

To Chapter 5