Title: Delicate Sensibilities
Pairing/Character(s): Alphonse Elric, Alfons Heiderich
Word Count: 485
Summary: Post-CoS AU. Upon arriving to Amestris, Alfons realizes several things, each of them stranger than the last.
The people of Amestris had no taste in fashion, Alfons found out quickly. Either they were in the military, thus wearing strange blue getups with long flaps trailing down their asses, or they were civilians, stuck in kitschy townie clothes, shirts and slacks and dresses that all looked third-hand. It was like there were only two classes in all of Amestris: the military and the fashionably-challenged.
"Mary, Mother of God," Alfons muttered, rubbing his eyes as Edward left their flat for work. Leather pants, he was wearing leather pants.
Amestrians were too strange.
"Are you all right, Heiderich?" Ed's little brother, who, creepily enough, did have his face, had taken to calling him by his surname, seemingly avoiding any and all hints that they were sort of the same person. That was just fine by Alfons, obviously, but the rest of Al and Edward's world had so blindsided him that having a smaller version of himself around was the least of his concerns.
"Fine, Al," he said. "Say, I think I need to get a job."
The dead stare on Al's face said I think so too, you fucking mooch.
Alfons laughed nervously, trying his damndest not to cringe. Young as he was, Al had the most frightening ability to communicate horrifying things through a single flat expression. Ed denied it, thought his baby brother was the sun and the moon, but the kid had an evil streak wider than Amestris when it came to Alfons.
Al was jealous, Alfons thought. As if anyone could top him in Ed's eyes.
"Yes," Alfons cleared his throat, trying to lift the awkward silence. "So, ah, I'm not sure where to start. The only experience I have is in a laboratory, but my, er, field of science doesn't seem to exist." And hadn't that messed with his mind, his own field of science not being real? He was going to create it, obviously, but there was the ethical issue of whether or not he was stealing his predecessors' work to consider. If they only existed in a parallel reality, did it count?
After a while, it usually just hurt his head to think on too much, so Alfons put that idea on the backburner.
"My suggestion," Al said in that high-pitched angelic voice, "is that you walk around the streets until you find one."
"…right," Alfons said. "I'll be sure to do that."
Al stared at him.
"I'll be sure to do that right now," Alfons continued, a little louder. "In fact," he said, backing his way to the front door and groping behind his back for the knob, "I'll just be leaving to," he opened it, stepping backwards into the hall stairwell, "do that. Right this second."
He closed the door on Al's attempt to murder him with his eyes and hurried down the stairs, pretending a child didn't hold so much sway on him.
Title: untitled – morning train
Pairing/Character(s): Kimbley, Alfons Heiderich
Word Count: 530
Summary: Post-CoS AU. Kimbley meets someone with a familiar face at the station.
Warnings: implied violence
Somewhere in the wreckage, Kimbley's hat had landed, the fine white lining of its rim hanging off a splintered board standing tall from the charred refuse. He picked it up slowly, inspected its interior with sharp eyes, and placed it carefully on the top of his head with a practiced ease.
The streets were empty, the early morning hour paving him a clear path to the train station. The pub had been an unfortunate occasion, not one that he'd ever intended, of course, but the end result had been so breathtaking, a symphony of destruction standing tall in a dull town, that he'd not felt a bit sorry for it.
Art, after all, was hardly a thing to regret—loss of human life or not.
The station was just as empty as he'd hoped, no line in front of the ticket booth and only one other man sitting with a newspaper on one of the benches, eyes hurriedly tracing over the text on the page, completely ignorant to anything around him. Kimbley walked past him to the booth, readying a pleasant smile for the sleepy-eyed attendant on the other side of the glass.
"The first route to East, please," he said, rapping his knuckles on the countertop, "one way."
"400 cenz," the man said, voice drowsy.
He slid the money into the receptor, grabbing the ticket that printed out for him. The attendant gave him a friendly nod, eyes dropping to the wide red stain on the cuff of Kimbley's blazer.
"Been a long night?" the attendant asked, trepidation waking him.
"A very long one," Kimbley said, and then made his way to the benches.
The man with the paper was still there. Kimbley glanced at his ticket, noting the time. The train would arrive at exactly four in the morning. He had ten minutes. It was, all in all, very good timing.
No one was likely to call the police in until well after five, when the town began to wake for the day.
"There is not much here, is there?"
"Not anymore," Kimbley replied, glancing over at the man. He'd apparently grown tired of his paper and was watching Kimbley with unguarded curiosity.
"Do you come here often?" The man's voice had an odd lilt to it, the accent not one with which he was familiar.
"I was just passing through," Kimbley said. "And you?"
"Passing through," the man grinned back at him, nodding. There was something familiar about his face, Kimbley noted. He never forgot a face, and there was something about the man that reminded him of—
Ah, he said to himself. The Elrics. The man had the very same face he'd been seeing in the papers for weeks, happy images of two golden haired and golden eyed boys under headlines blaring THE FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST RETURNS!
The kid—he wasn't quite a child anymore, just had the height of one—was like a cockroach. No matter what anyone did, he just wouldn't die.
The only thing the man seated next to him was missing was the eyes. His were a shade of blue, light, a color typical of Amestris, which left Kimbley even more curious about the strange accent.
Title: and on the other side of the galaxy
Character(s): Alfons Heiderich
Word Count: 670
Summary: Post-CoS AU. Science is even *more* exciting in a parallel universe!
Warnings: Innuendo, language
Nothing, Alfons swore, nothing in the world was like rockets, and the Amestrian Military seemed to agree. Never mind the fact that no one in the world Ed dragged him to had so much as considered the possibility of anything being capable of flight, the sheer intensity of the knowledge that Alfons himself was leading the entire field of rocketry—and with stunning momentum—was enough to give him a boner.
Or he would be leading the field, if he could only get back to Central in time for the presentation to propose a department for rocketry in the Amestrian Central University. Only he sort of blew up the train.
It wasn't his fault, or anything, but—
He did place the proper warnings on all the boxes carrying the more volatile chemicals for his research. How was it his fault that the labels were facing the walls of the luggage compartment rather than outward? He wasn't the one loading the train!
He'd been almost alone on the train, just him and the conductor and the operators and staff, and when the thing went and blew up, he was mostly sure that they all made it off, if the angry shrieks and despairing wails were anything to go by.
To be safe, Alfons crept in the opposite direction, taking solace in the wooded areas running on either side of the tracks. He was slightly charred, lungs filled with smoke and heat, but he was fine. Some part of his mind had gone frantic when the first mouthful of smoke had hit the back of his throat, going down, but he told himself, over and over and over, that his lungs were practically new, what was a little smoke now that Ed had fixed him?
Parallel universes, he thought to himself, rubbing ash and dirt off his face as he braced his back against a tree, were the best things ever.
Alfons took a deep breath and pushed off the tree, stumbling from the small enclave he'd been hiding in and out into the open.
"Mr. Hei—ah, there you are." The conductor's sweaty, blackened face broke into a weary grin. "I was beginning to think—but no matter! You're fine, and that's all that—yes…" He wiped his forehead, looking extraordinarily nervous.
It was a good sign, Alfons noted. It meant no one planned on blaming him.
Because, really, it wasn't his fault.
"I'm fine," he said quickly. "The train…?"
The man's face crumpled. "Unsalvageable. We'll need to walk to the nearest town down the tracks and take a civilian line to Central. It's—" The conductor broke into a hesitant laugh. "The, ah, the chemicals, you see… There's none left."
"None," Alfons echoed blankly. Well, of course there were none left! The train blew up, honestly, what was he meant to be expecting? Miracles? The second coming of Christ?
"I'm very sorry, sir—"
Alfons waved a hand at the man's apologies, shrugging. "There is not much that could be done at this point, yes? We will walk." He nodded down the tracks.
At first, the estimate to the nearest town started around two hours, but they ended up walking for a good four before they stumbled, exhausted and sore, into a small town just after sunset. The inns were mostly full, only the dodgier ones having more than a single room open.
"It is an entertainment town?" Alfons frowned. "That means…"
"Entertainment," the conductor said weakly, handing over the room key. "You, well, there are pubs," he began, obviously grappling for an answer. "And, ah, women!"
"Pubs and women," Alfons repeated dubiously. "I will see about this, then."
"Sir, maybe it would be best if—"
"If I enjoyed myself, as all of my work is gone, yes?" Alfons smiled, feeling vaguely guilty for abusing the poor man's nearly tangible guilt over an incident that really wasn't his fault either, but there was just no way he planned on sitting in his hotel room all night.
Title: the best part about rocketry is
Character(s): Alfons Heiderich, Kimbley
Word Count: 530
Summary: Post-CoS AU. " And in East, in a stroke of excellent luck, Kimbley had met a man who was quite possibly less balanced than he was."
Warnings: Very mildly implied violence
"Rockets," the man said gravely, "explode."
Kimbley leaned forward, lips twitching up. "You don't say?"
The day had been a waste, completely and terribly so. The reports of the Fullmetal Alchemist's triumphant return from nowhere had been the only thing the newspapers had been reporting for weeks. Kimbley—who was, for all intents and purposes, meant to be dead—still remembered the morning he'd opened the newspaper to that very first front page spread, skimming over the pictures of the destruction in Central with a manic glee, mentally categorizing the what's and the how's of the charred buildings and streets. Then he'd backtracked, squinted, and caught sight of a boy, just barely taller than the last time they'd seen each other, in an oddly subdued outfit (the shirts and slacks did nothing for his washed out complexion, of that Kimbley was certain).
Needless to say, Kimbley'd gotten himself a ticket to East within minutes. There was no sense in hanging around where the boy could find him, not when he'd made such a pleasurable career out of being a dead man.
And in East, in a stroke of excellent luck, Kimbley had met a man who was quite possibly less balanced than he was.
"And how do they explode, Mr…?"
"Alfons," the man said, extending his hand across the alcohol-sticky table. "Alfons Heiderich. And you are?" His voice had an odd lilt, enough that it was obvious he was a foreigner. He spoke carefully, each words measured as though he were afraid the meanings might change on him.
"Zolf Kimbley," he said, not bothering with the pleasantries. The name obviously didn't ring a bell with Alfons, because he made no sudden moves, didn't jump up from the table screaming.
Alfons looked like an Elric, something that had done more than unsettle him when he caught sight of the blond man while disembarking. But blue eyes, he'd told himself. The Elric brothers were known for their unusual golden eyes, so this man, well—
This man couldn't possibly have anything to do with them.
"It depends," Alfons continued. "Sometimes, they explode because they are made to explode, you see. Long range missiles, we called them back home. And sometimes," he laughed, "they explode because something has gone wrong. We shoot them up," his raised his arm quickly, sloshing beer all over the table and down his hand and wrist, "and it combusts, I believe you would say. A crack, some fire…" He trailed off, shrugging sheepishly. "It is always very messy when they explode."
"But some of them explode on purpose?"
Alfons nodded. "They are weapons," he confirmed. "They can be shot long distance for… to attack," he said, stumbling over his words.
"You're from Drachma, aren't you?" It would make sense. Alfons could very well be a spy for the Drachmans, and wouldn't that just be a kick?
Alfons frowned. "Drachma? I am not certain of where that is. A city?"
Kimbley stared. "Drachma," he tried again. "The country to the north?" When Alfons shrugged, all sorts of alarms went up in Kimbley's mind. "Where are you from?"
"Here," Alfons said. "And there. Would you like another drink?"
"Why not," Kimbley said.