Archive of Our Own

You’re not a good person. Never have been. Maybe, once, long ago, you were. But not anymore.

(Your children hate you. You’re sure of it.)

Still, when you see a kid running toward you, you stop. Kneel a little. Arms out, instinctively, like you're catching your own.

They’ve got long, golden hair whipping across their face with every frantic, stumbling step—the kind of bright gold that shouldn’t exist outside of paintings or fairy tales. Their features are soft, still rounded with youth, but there’s a promise beneath the surface—a hint of sharpness in the eyes, the jaw, the way they hold themselves. He’ll grow into a striking young man one day. You can see it already, clear as day.

(You wonder what type of man your son has grown into.)

So—a boy, then.

He’s also missing an arm.

Your heart jerks to a stop. For a second, the fog in your brain clears. But there’s no blood, no torn flesh—just gleaming steel that speaks tellingly of Automail.

He keeps running, unsteady and swaying like a drunk. Like you. And your first thought—shamefully—is that maybe he raided someone’s liquor cabinet, took a swig too many, and now he’s bolting from the fallout.

But no. The look on his face can only be described as terror. Bone-deep and raw.

He stumbles again, and this time, he’s close enough for you to catch him, fist curling into the thin fabric of his tank top as you drag him forward. He doesn’t resist. Not yet. He just collapses into you, limp as a ragdoll. He’s light. Too light. You can feel the faintest suggestion of muscle—but it’s not enough to hide the bruises.

They’re big. Fresh. Deep purple blooming over pale skin. You wonder, distantly, if the same hands that made those bruises also took his arm.

You don’t have time to wonder long.

He thrashes, suddenly, jerking against your grip. “What! Hey—!”

But he’s not really there. He’s mumbling something, low and broken, words caught somewhere between a sob and a slur. His voice is young. Fragile. It splinters on the edges, like glass about to shatter. It breaks something in you.

“Hey, hey,” you say, softer than you’ve sounded in years. “It’s okay. Just—just tell me what’s wrong.”

He doesn’t answer. Just makes that same frightened noise, a warble caught deep in his throat.

You look into his eyes. Golden. Striking.

And then you see it—his pupils.

Wide. Blown. Too wide.

Your heart drops, cold and hard, like the snow in Drachma.

Drugs.

You know drugs. You know them too well. They’re the reason you’re like this. The reason your kids don’t call. The reason your wife used to cry when she thought you weren’t listening. You’ve been living on the streets for years, chasing a high that never stays long enough. At first, your family tried to help. They begged. Pleaded. But over time, the begging turned to silence. The silence turned to distance.

You were on the couch, eyes glassy, veins burning. Your oldest walked in, took one look, and walked right back out.

“Did he leave because of me?” you’d asked your daughter.

She just bit her lip. Looked away.

(You wonder what she saw in that moment—a father, or a stranger.)

You left after that. Didn’t go back.

You only think about them when you’re sober—and you almost never are. Pills. Powders. Injections. Anything to keep the guilt drowned.

But now—here’s this kid.

This scared, trembling, golden-haired kid, clutching at you like you're the only solid thing left in the world.

And somehow, he’s knocked the high clean out of your system.

You blow out a breath through your nose, steadying yourself, ready to help him—do something, anything—when a voice cuts through the haze.

“Hey!”

Heavy footsteps slam against the pavement, and you spot the man approaching. He’s built like someone who’s used to physical labour. Tan skin, scarred arms. He looks solid. Capable. Dangerous. You don’t know if he’s calling out to you or someone else—until the kid lets out a choked, broken sound. Fear. The kind that roots deep.

You forget the man. He doesn’t matter anymore.

“Hey, hey, shh—it’s okay,” you murmur, crouching again. You keep your voice low and calm, but the kid shakes his head violently. Hair whips across his face, still tangled and wild. He’s not speaking—he can’t speak. Just soft, terrified noises. You feel him squirm in your arms, but there’s no strength left in him. Then a sob escapes, sharp and aching, and it nearly undoes you.

By the time the man catches up, he’s breathing hard, sweat trailing down his temple. He slows with a laugh—light, friendly, like this is nothing more than a harmless misunderstanding.

“Sorry about that,” he says easily. “That’s my son you’ve got there—”

The boy makes a sound. It's not a word, but it’s close to one—close enough to be no.

“—thank you for catching him. I was so worried.” He steps forward, arm outstretched, like he’s about to take the boy back by the collar.

You move first.

You take a full step back, shielding the kid behind your legs.

You don’t know what surprises you more—the movement or the fact that you don’t immediately apologise for it. You’ve been meek for years. Ever since the drugs. Ever since your kids stopped looking at you like a person. But something about this—about the bruises and the automail and the way the boy clings to your shirt with trembling fingers—

You won’t back down.

The man’s smile falters. Just slightly. His eyes sharpen, his posture shifts, but he reins it in fast. “Look, that really is my son,” he says, tone tight but controlled. “I know how this must look, but you have to understand—he’s not well. He’s got… issues. Severe developmental trauma. He was institutionalised for a while. PTSD, dissociative episodes… The works.” He chuckles awkwardly, trying to soften the blow. “We’ve been working on it, but every now and then, he gets confused. Lashes out. Runs.”

And you hesitate. Could you be wrong? You’re not even sober. Your brain’s only just coming back online.

But then the boy tightens his grip on you, knuckles white.

“He has bruises,” you say flatly.

The man’s expression hardens again. “He gives them to himself,” he says, too quickly. Then he nods, like he's thought this all through. “It’s why we had to remove his automail arm. He kept hurting himself with it—scratching too deep, slamming it into walls. Dangerous behaviour. The doctors recommended the removal. We didn’t want to—but it was the only way to keep him safe.”

He says it like it’s tragic. Like it broke his heart.

You don’t buy it.

The man sighs again, performing weariness now. “Edward, come on. Let’s not cause any more trouble. You’re scaring this poor man,” he says, smiling at the boy—at Edward— now. “Let’s go home, huh?”

He reaches for the kid again.

That’s when you see it.

A Bite mark. It's deep. Right on his hand and still bleeding.

You catch his eyes flick to it, too. He doesn't flinch.

“Haha,” he laughs, rubbing the injury as if it’s a joke. “Real biter, this one. Always has been—since he was a baby! It’s just a nervous habit. We’ve tried everything—therapy, training gloves, medication—but you know how it is with kids like him. Can’t reason with them.”

Your stomach turns.

You can’t accuse him. You don’t have proof. You’re a junkie with trembling hands and a spotty memory. Who would believe you over him?

But the kid hasn’t let go of you. Not once.

And that has to mean something.

You shift your weight, angling yourself just slightly between the man and the boy.

“Do you have any documents?” you ask, voice low but firm. “Something to prove you're his father?”

He blinks. Just for a second. Then he smiles again—but it's thinner now. Sharper. “I left everything in the car,” he says easily. “Didn’t think I’d need to bring Edward’s birth certificate for a walk.”

You nod slowly. “Of course. It's just… maybe we should call the police. Just to clear everything up. If he really is your son, it won’t be a problem.”

This time, the mask does slip.

His eyes go flat. Mouth tightens.

“You think you’re a goddamn hero?” he mutters. Then, louder: “You think this is your business now?”

His hand slips inside his coat, and you see it. Cold metal. A pistol, half-holstered, but there.

You freeze.

Edward sees it too. His eyes widen, and he makes a lurching run.

“No—!” he rasps, barely a sound—but it's enough.

And you reach out, fingers just grasping the smooth material of his tank top, when the boy is grabbed by the man with the gun.

“Attaboy,” the man says, fingers curling around Edward’s collar like a leash. “See? Just a tantrum.”

You want to move. Say something. Do something.

But your eyes are still locked on the outline of the gun, hidden beneath his coat.

And the boy doesn’t look back.

…

You watch them go.

You watch him wrap his hand around Edward’s neck like it belongs there.

You watch the boy’s body sag forward, the fight drained from him, or maybe it was the drugs taking hold again. You can’t see his face anymore. Just the back of that tank top, the shaking in his legs, the golden hair dulled by sweat and dirt.

Then they vanish, swallowed by the street’s curve and your own cowardice.

You don’t move. Not for a long time.

You stare at the place they disappeared, like you expect him to come running back. But he doesn’t.

You sit down hard on the curb. Hands trembling. Breathe shallow.

You let him go.

You let a scared, bruised, drugged child walk back to the man who hurt him.

You dig your nails into your scalp and try not to scream.

How could you?

You have nothing. No job. No home. No purpose. You're a ghost, floating from hit to hit, waiting for your body to give up.

So why didn’t you fight?

Why didn’t you throw yourself at the man and get shot if it meant saving him?

You’d spent years doing nothing. Years being nothing. And the one time—the one time—someone needed you…

You shove your head between your knees and try not to cry, but the tears come anyway.

And just when you think you’ll fall back into the numb, a face flashes in your mind.

Your daughter.

Twelve years old when you left. You barely remember her voice. But you remember the way she used to sit on your lap with a juice box and hum while your hands shook.

You remember your son—older—turning away from you when you called his name.

You remember the woman who used to call you hers before you became someone else entirely.

And suddenly you miss them so much it feels like something inside you breaks open.

(You don't want to live like this anymore.)

You stand. Slowly. Legs stiff, head pounding. You’re shaking, and you’re still half-high, but you know what you have to do.

You go to the nearest police station.

It’s not far. You stagger inside like a drunk—and you are a drunk—but you’ve got fire in your chest for the first time in years.

The woman at the desk eyes you warily.

You try to speak. Your voice cracks.

“I… I think I saw a kid get taken. A boy.”

She lifts an eyebrow. "You think?"

“He was drugged. He couldn’t talk.”

She’s already giving you that look. The one that says druggie. Delusional. You know that look like an old friend.

“Sir,” she says slowly, “Do you have any proof? A name?”

You stare at her.

Then it hits you. He didn’t say much, but… yes. He did say his name.

You wet your lips. “Edward.”

Something in her face changes. Instantly.

She straightens. Fingers twitch toward the phone. “Say that again?”

“Edward,” you repeat, louder now, surer. “He had automail. Golden hair. Young. Real young, and—and he was with some guy—said he was his dad. He wasn’t. The kid was terrified. He—he looked like he’d been missing for a while.”

By now, she’s moving—radio in hand. Someone steps into the room behind her.

“You said automail?” the second officer asks, voice clipped. “Right arm, left leg?”

“I—I’m not sure about his leg,” you say. “But his right automail arm was missing.”

The two share a look.

And suddenly, they believe you.

…

They take you to a back room.

They hand you a bottle of water and a sandwich, then leave with a quiet promise: someone will be here soon.

You wait as patiently as you can.

Which turns out… isn’t very patient.

You drink the water. Manage a few bites of the sandwich. You pace more than you sit. You keep checking the clock, wondering how long “soon” is supposed to be, when finally—the door opens.

You meet Roy Mustang that day.

He walks in with a quiet intensity that fills the room before he even speaks. Uniform sharp. Eyes sharper. He doesn’t offer small talk.

Just questions.

You try to answer every one. You do your best—though your hands won’t stop shaking, so you clasp them together and hide them under the steel table like a kid caught lying.

He asks about the man, the car, the alley, Edward’s condition.

And when he has what he needs, Colonel Roy Mustang stands.

“Wait—”

Your voice cracks louder than you mean it to, and it makes him pause. He turns toward you, patient but unreadable. His gaze flicks briefly to the door again—he’s already halfway out in his mind. You don’t blame him. You’d want to be out there too, looking for Edward.

But you need to say something. Anything.

“Please,” you say. “Let me come with you. I know I’m not military—but I saw him. I was there. There has to be something I can do.”

For a second, he just watches you. That unreadable face again.

And then, with the finality of a closing door:

“I appreciate your concern,” he says, voice clipped but not cruel. “But this is a military operation now. We’ll take it from here.”

You want to argue. You want to scream.

You want to tell him how Edward looked at you. How tightly he held on. How much you owe that kid.

But he’s already turning.

You catch a glimpse of the team waiting just outside.

A blonde woman stands with her arms folded, spine straight as a steel beam. Her gaze cuts through the hallway like a blade—quiet, precise, and unblinking.

Next to her is a man with a lopsided posture and a cigarette, unlit but clenched by gritted teeth. He bounces on his heels like he’s ready to sprint the second he gets the signal.

There’s another—broad-shouldered, thickset, shifting his weight, impatient.

They don’t speak.

They don’t have to.

They move like parts of the same machine—disciplined, in sync, and ready.

Soldiers.

You’re not one of them.

And you’re not allowed to go.

But then someone steps out from behind him—the one with the stocky build and reddish-brown hair, military uniform wrinkled like he’s been living in it for days.

He claps a hand on your shoulder. It's not rough. Not pitying either. Just solid.

“You’ve helped more than you know,” the man says. “Name’s Breda. We’ve been looking for Fullmetal for days. You gave us the one thing we didn’t have—a direction.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But hope isn't a notion you've let yourself believe in since the night you left your family.

They file out—boots on tile, orders flying, uniforms vanishing into black cars and flashing lights—you’re left standing in the quiet lobby, useless.

You sit.

You wait.

Hours pass. It feels like days. You try to sleep on the waiting bench, but guilt gnaws at the inside of your skull like rot.

So you ask questions. Every staff change, you ask if they’ve heard anything. Every soldier who walks past in uniform, you ask if they’ve found him. You dig through newspapers, overhear conversations, and piece together a legend.

Edward Elric. The youngest State Alchemist in history. Became certified at twelve. Barely a teenager.

He must be thirteen now. Thirteen. And already a soldier.

You read about train wrecks and chimeras, border wars and rogue alchemists. Towns saved. Towns destroyed. Edward Elric has been everywhere.

You stare at the photo in one of the papers—a blurry shot, automail glinting in the sun, golden hair tied back, a glare fierce enough to crack the lens. He looks furious.

He looks so small.

You wonder how he got that way. What kind of life shapes a kid into someone like that. A soldier, a fighter, a survivor.

You also wonder how anyone could hurt a child like him. Drug him. Beat him. Keep him on a leash like an animal.

And worse, you wonder how many times it’s happened before.

You wait.

When night falls, you leave.

But you’re back first thing the next morning.

Eventually, the soldiers start to recognise you. They nod when you pass. Some try to strike up conversation—offering quiet reassurances, even words of praise.

You nod. You smile. You say thank you.

But none of it touches the growing pit in your stomach.

You’re still just waiting. Powerless. And every second that passes makes you wonder if you did enough.

You think about your own kids while you wait. How you ran from them. How you poisoned yourself instead of trying to be better. How, somehow, it took a stranger’s pain to remind you of your own.

You make yourself a promise: After this, you’ll quit. You’ll go home, or you’ll die trying.

No more getting high to feel numb. No more excuses. You’ll go back and fight for your family—if they’ll even let you try.

Then, finally—

Someone taps your shoulder.

You jolt awake. There’s a blanket around your shoulders. You’d been dozing, or maybe just staring at the floor long enough to forget where you were.

It’s Breda again.

He looks exhausted. Hair slicked back. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. But his expression holds something you have finally learnt to believe in again.

Hope.

“We got him,” he says.

For a second, the words don’t register. Then they hit you like sunlight cracking through a storm.

You’re on your feet in an instant. “He’s—? Is he okay?”

Breda nods. “Shaken. Bit roughed up. But yeah. He’s alive. Lucid. Safe.”

You want to fall over.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

You follow him. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you walk like a man with a reason to move forward.

…

The hospital smells like antiseptic and stale coffee. You haven't set foot in one since the birth of your daughter. And that was years ago. It buzzes with quiet movement—soft footsteps, rolling carts, muffled pages over intercoms—but all of it feels miles away as you follow Breda down the corridor. Your steps are slow, dragging. The adrenaline’s gone. All that’s left is exhaustion and a pressure in your chest that refuses to ease.

Breda stops outside a door with a clipboard hanging from it. He gives you a glance, a nod, then knocks gently before pushing it open.

You step inside—

And stop.

Edward Elric is sitting up in bed, propped against thin white pillows. His face is pale, his eyes ringed with fatigue, but he’s alert. A bandage wraps high around his temple, automail arm resting stiffly across his lap.

It takes you a second to recognise him. When you first saw him, he was trembling and thin, hair tangled, face smudged with grime and bruises. He looked half-broken. Barely conscious. Barely human under the weight of whatever drugs were in his system.

Now, though…

Now he looks like a boy again.

Still too small for thirteen. Still too young to carry the weight he clearly does. But he’s there. Present. Whole.

And beside him, seated silently in a chair far too small for his hulking form, is a towering suit of armour.

Not just armour.

Alphonse Elric.

You read about him—how the Fullmetal Alchemist always travelled with a brother in steel armour. It had seemed like a myth when you first heard it. A child’s tale.

But now, you feel the air shift in the room just from his presence. Not dangerous—just steady. Watchful and loyal.

Like nothing will touch Edward again without going through him first.

Edward sees you.

And smiles.

“You came,” he says.

Your breath catches. It's the first time you’ve heard his voice—really heard it. Not the slurred mumbling of a drugged child, not the panicked noises from a bruised throat.

It’s clear. Strong. Steady.

It floors you.

You try to speak but fail. Just nod.

He shifts slightly, automail arm gleaming under the room’s fluorescent lights. You realise suddenly—he has it back. When you first saw him, he was without it, the shoulder capped in wires, metal port exposed. Now it’s whole again, polished and reattached.

The way he moves it is careful, like it still hurts. But it’s his again.

“I didn’t get to say thank you,” he says.

You flinch. “You don’t have to. Really.”

He looks at you with those gold eyes—bright and unrelenting, no haze, no fear this time.

“I do,” he says.

“I didn’t fight,” you admit quietly. “I just… stood there. Froze. You had to go back to him. Because of me.”

“But I got out,” Edward says. “Because you didn’t stop. You remembered my name. You told the right people. And that gave them the lead they needed to find me.”

He leans forward slightly, wincing, but intent. “You gave me a chance.”

You don’t know what to say. The shame's too heavy, your throat too tight.

“You saw me when no one else would’ve looked twice," Edward says again, softer this time. And you understand. Countless times, people look away—pretending not to see when someone’s being beaten in the street or dragged into a dark alley.

And then, without a word, he reaches out. The automail arm hesitates in the air, like he’s not sure if he should and you brace yourself for warmth when he finally moves, but it’s cold. Smooth steel over ragged flannel. Gentle, but firm. Grounding.

The touch makes you flinch. Not from fear, but from everything you’ve kept buried for years, clawing its way to the surface.

And then the dam breaks.

You collapse into the chair beside the bed, hand covering your mouth, shoulders shaking with loud, ugly sobs. No control. No dignity. Just raw, keening grief as everything crashes down at once.

Years of rot and guilt. Every missed birthday. Every bottle. Every moment your kids watched you become someone else. It all comes out at once.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

You don’t even know who you’re talking to.

Edward?

Your daughter?

Your son?

All of them?

“I’m sorry.”

You should be ashamed—crying like this in front of a kid. In front of The Edward Elric. But you’re just so tired. So relieved. And somehow, none of that seems to matter.

Edward doesn’t look away.

He just keeps that steady grip on your shoulder.

The armour beside him moves. Alphonse, gentle as a whisper in a hurricane, holds out a cup of water with massive fingers.

“Here,” he says. His voice echoes hollowly through the steel. “You should drink something.”

You take it. You’re still crying. Still shaking. But when you meet his gaze—bright soul-fire eyes—you see the same thing you saw in Edward:

Kindness.

Unflinching, patient kindness.

And for the first time in years, you think maybe—not now, not instantly—but maybe you’ll be okay.

….

You leave before the sun rises.

The train home is quiet. Your reflection in the window looks older than you remember. But the light creeping in over the horizon feels softer somehow.

And when you walk up to your house—every step full of the weight you carry—your family is there.

The lights are on.

The door opens.

And they’re waiting.