A Home for a Boy Named Ed

These are the misadventures of Roy Mustang and his little son, Ed. A series of one-shots that take place before the events of A Boy Named Ed. Not written in chronological order.

A.N. I was inspired today to diverge from my main project a bit and put out the first short in this little series. I am, however, counting this in my NaNoWriMo word count as it's all part of the same story and I'm writing it during November. Don't worry. The next chapter of A Boy Named Ed is well underway.

Disclaimer: Ed, Al, and all their friends are the property of Hiromu Arakawa. I do not own them, but am grateful for the opportunity to use them in the unleashing of my own imagination.

Rating: This story is rated K+

Pat-a-cake

Age: 5

Roy wasn't entirely sure what woke him up at 6:17 on a Saturday morning. Normally, his wife would be up by that point, having never been one to change her sleep schedule for something as insignificant as the weekend. But Riza had gone out of town the day before to visit her friend Rebecca in East City. As such, Roy hadn't expected to be disturbed from his slumber until a far more sensible hour – like 9:30 – or at least until the sun was up.

At first, he was tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep. His sheets were warm and his pillow was cradling his head at just the right angle to prevent a sore neck and allow him to breathe deeply without snoring. There were no pressing concerns or stressful thoughts buzzing through his brain to keep him awake. And he was certain that the dream he was having just before his abrupt awakening was something of the pleasurable sort involving his wife and an apron.

But just as he felt himself start to drift off once more, a muffled clatter from somewhere in the house caught on the edge of his hearing and forced him back into the waking world. He frowned and sat up in bed, even as he bemoaned the loss of few more hours of perfect slumber. Years of military experience had taught him to be on guard and to not simply ignore an irregular occurrence. The sound did not repeat itself, but Mustang knew he would not be able to sleep again until he investigated its source and verified that all was well within his home.

Snatching his ignition gloves off the bedside table, he tossed back the covers and stood up. He chose to forgo his usual house shoes in favor of the stealth and silence, but cringed at the feeling of cold wood boards beneath his bare feet. Crossing the room, he opened the door carefully. His son's room was just across the hall and he would not do well to wake the boy so early. If there was an intruder in the house, Roy would prefer to deal with the situation swiftly and allow his child to remain blissfully unaware of the threat of danger.

Ed's room was dark – the door left open just a few inches, as it always was, to let in the light from the hallway while he fell asleep. Roy decided to check on the boy after he finished searching the house. He was certain that the sound had come from the kitchen or dining room and he didn't want to make any detours which might allow a burglar to escape. As he entered the family room, from the hallway, he quickly noted that the light was on in the kitchen, confirming his earlier suspicions. There was someone in the house – but who would dare trespass in the home of a well known State Alchemist and his wife who, despite having changed her last name, was still commonly referred to as 'The Hawks Eye.'

Slipping his right hand into its glove, he poised his fingers to snap and crept carefully towards the place where the housebreaker was hiding. But as he rounded the corner he found himself frozen in shock – unable to snap, unable to move, unable to breathe.

He tried to breathe… and only succeeded in inhaling a flurry of flour dust that chose that moment to drift past his nose. He blew and sniffed and shook his head to clear it while never taking his eyes off the complete disaster that surrounded him.

The kitchen was… splattered… there wasn't another word. It was splattered with what looked like it might have been a batter or dough of sorts, although none of it had been mixed very well. He could distinctly make out a single egg yolk, shining brightly yellow in the midst of a milky brown blot on the counter. It wasn't just the counter though, or even a singular spot on the floor. No. This… splatter covered everything – the floor, the walls, the counter, the cabinets, the ice box. There was some on the ceiling as well. Even the very air seemed to be coated as it was still swirling with flour moats.

And sitting in the midst of all of this, verily covered in food stuff as well, was a small, blond haired boy. He was curled up in the middle of the kitchen floor, clutching his right leg to his chest with his left arm. His prosthetic right arm hung limply at his side while his left, equally prosthetic leg stuck out in front of him like part of a broken rag doll. His head was tucked low, leaning somewhere against his arm or his leg for support while his shoulders shook with what were clearly suppressed sobs.

The sight of his son's distress, pushed aside any confusion, anger, or humor he might have felt at the sight of his kitchen in such a state of disarray. He moved quickly, across the room – only pausing for one awful moment wherein his bare, right foot squelched into something horrible cold and sticky. He did not, however, allow that to deter him from his path. He crouched down before his son and braced his hands on the boy's slight shoulders.

"Ed. Ed!" A slight amount of panic came through in his voice when the child did not respond instantaneously to his name. Roy pushed back that irrational feeling and locked it somewhere beneath his stomach. He needed to focus. If something was wrong – Oh, please! Don't let something be wrong!

Ed looked up slowly, his eyes still wet with tears and his lip quivering as he sniffled. "Daddy?"

"Ed, are you hurt?" Roy asked quickly, trying to suppress the sudden urge to search every inch of his son's body for whatever invisible wound was causing him pain.

The boy blinked as though he didn't understand the question, but then shook his head while he choked out another sob and more tears bloomed from his golden eyes.

Roy breathed out a sigh of relief even as his sense of utter befuddlement rose to new heights. How had this happened? This wasn't exactly Ed's first time in the kitchen – far from it in fact. The five year old loved spending time in the kitchen, helping his mother prepare meals and bake tasty deserts. Roy usually just watched – his own culinary skills ending somewhere around preparing coffee and boiling noodles. He couldn't have been more grateful when Riza started packing their icebox with easily reheat-able meals shortly after baby-Ed started eating solid foods.

Ed took to cooking much the same way he took to everything else – with a surprising amount of patience, coupled with fiery determination. Where another child might rush through the process and be constantly dropping bowls, crushing eggs, and flinging batter before finally giving up and letting the grown-up do all the work while he licked the batter off the spoon, Ed was resolved to do every task he was given, by himself, to the very best of his ability, from start to finish. He worked slowly and steadily as he came up with clever ways to compensate for the limited range or movement in his prosthetic limbs. But he could confidently carry a pitcher of water without spilling a drop. He could crack an egg, one-handed, over the bowl without dropping any shell fragments. And he could certainly manage to stir a bowl of batter without splattering anything on the counter – let alone the entire kitchen.

Everything Roy knew about his son and the boy's near perfect record for not making messes in the kitchen simply didn't add up to… this. Ed had never done something like this – not in all of the countless hours he had spent in the kitchen under his mother's careful tutelage. Perhaps that was it. Riza had always been there before – always available to help if something should happen. But Riza wasn't here this time… no, it still didn't add up. It wasn't like Ed had never been allowed to make mistakes before. He'd had some spills early on and they'd lost a few fragile plates and cups to the hardwood floor for his clumsy clutch. But those accidents had only made him more determined to get it right the next time. He was a self-corrector, by nature. It only took a few genuine attempts at anything for him to get it right.

No, there was no way to justify this disaster. It couldn't be chalked up to something as ridiculous as children doing stupid things when their parents weren't watching. Maybe other children did things like this. But Ed was like other children. He just didn't do things like this. Surely… surely, there was a rational explanation for this. But the only one who could provide that explanation was currently covered in flour and slime and tears.

Roy hesitated only a moment before sitting on the splattered floor and pulling the splattered boy into his lap. They would both need baths and a change of clothes after this, but coaxing an explanation out of his currently distraught son would be much easier if they were both comfortable. He leaned his back against the counter and waited as Ed found that oh so familiar position against his chest - with his blond head tucked neatly beneath Roy's chin and his left hand flexing absently within the folds of his father's shirt.

It was something they had started years ago – whenever Ed did something wrong and thought he was in trouble, he would solemnly approach his father with his chin tucked low and his eyes shut tight in apology. The first time it happened Roy had gotten the sense that Ed was afraid – not of him, but of losing him – that his actions would somehow cause his beloved father to reject him. And upon realizing this, Roy determined that his son would never feel that sting of rejection from him. So he gathered the boy in his arms and held him close until the tears subsided. And then they talked about what had occurred and why it was wrong and they discussed appropriate consequences for his actions. Since then it had become the norm, if Ed made a mistake, to see the boy pressed against his father's chest, awaiting their discussion and willing to accept whatever consequences, but always knowing that, no matter what he did wrong, his father would never leave him and would always love him.

It didn't take long, therefore, for Ed to sniffle and wipe away his tears. Secure in his father's arms, he knew it was time to face his mistake. Roy looked down and met his son's sorrowful golden eyes and asked him plainly. "What happened?"

He expected the boy to answer in kind – plain and straightforward as he had learned was the best way to get things out in the open right from the start. But for the first time in a long time, Ed hesitated in his answer. He chewed on his lower lip and averted his eyes. He scratched at the spot where the harness for his prosthetic arm always seemed to irritate his skin, no matter what kind of padding they used. He picked at a drying spot of batter on his cheek, letting it flake and crumble into a dusty pile on his lap.

Finally, after too long a time to be considered normal, the boy sighed heavily and admitted the truth. "I was trying to make you a cake, for your birthday… it was supposed to be a secret." The last part came out in a bitter mumble, as though berating himself for his failed surprise.

Roy had to think about that statement for several moments and consider the day planner on his desk at work – which he rarely used since his wife was more efficient at keeping him on schedule – before determining that, yes, it was his birthday. He hadn't actually acknowledged his birthday, as anything more than another date on the calendar, since he'd reached the legal drinking age. He hadn't celebrated his birthday since he was a boy, not much older than Ed was now. He just didn't see the point in making such a big deal to celebrate the day he "turned" a year older when, in actuality, he grew older with every passing day. He didn't have a problem celebrating birthdays for other people – for his son especially, in recent years. He just didn't like to advertise his own. Which begged the question – how did Ed know?

"How did you know?" he voiced his thought.

"It was on my calendar – Mommy put it there. I saw it yesterday when I marked the days till Mommy comes home." Ah, that explained it. Ed loved calendars. He'd discovered them a few years ago, when Roy was going out of town on assignment and used the calendar to explain to his boy just how many days he'd be gone. Ed had diligently crossed out the days until his father's return and was pleased as pie when the proper day arrived and his father came home, just like he'd promised. In the toddler's mind, it had been like magic.

Ed knew better than that now, but he still used his calendar faithfully. He liked to write down special events and holidays and found various things he could "countdown" to. It made sense then, that Ed would ask for the birthdates of important people in his life and mark these down as well. Though Roy rather wished his own birthday had not been listed among those – especially seeing as how this was the consequence.

"Okay… so, you tried to make a cake. But Ed, you've baked plenty of times before. How did… how did this happen?" he swung his arm out to indicate the mess in the room and Ed followed the gesture, looking about warily as an embarrassed blush stole over his face.

He lowered his gaze and toyed with his prosthetic fingers for a moment before explaining. "Mommy said I'm not allowed to use the oven without a grownup. Mommy's not here and I didn't want you to know about it, so I didn't know what I was gonna do. Then I remembered what you said about alchemy – that it was like baking – and I thought maybe I could transmute the cake out of the ingredients. But… it didn't work. It rebounded and…" he trailed off, looking around the room again.

Roy, for his part, was unable to respond immediately to the confession. This was probably a good thing seeing as how his first impulse was to laugh out loud. He searched the kitchen floor with his eyes and there, sure enough, hidden beneath a healthy coating of flour and partially destroyed by a large batter splatter, were the remnants of a chalk-drawn transmutation circle. He thought he'd been shocked when he first walked into the kitchen and saw the mess. But that was nothing to what he now felt at realizing how said mess came to be.

And to think that this was all his own fault. He should have been more careful with his similes during their most recent alchemy practice session. Alchemy is like baking, he'd said. You have to measure the ingredients just right to get the right results.

"Ed… Son, when I said alchemy was like baking, I didn't… I didn't mean it like this. I was referring to measurements and ingredients – the components of a recipe. I didn't…" He trailed off in his circular explanation and came up with a way to state things clearly. "Alchemy is like baking… but baking is not like alchemy. Believe me, if it was, I would be a much more accomplished chef. You've tasted enough of my food to know otherwise."

Ed nodded solemnly but with a glint in his eye. "Mommy's tastes better."

"That is does, Kiddo." Roy replied, ruffling his son's hair. Then he met the boy's eyes seriously. "Look, do you understand? You can't transmute a cake… it just doesn't work that way."

The boy nodded again. "I know that now." Then he tucked his chin and peered up at his father from beneath his bangs. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

"I know, Son. It was an accident." Roy wrapped his arms around his son and held him tightly for a moment longer – ignoring the sticky mess that was now drying on the front of his shirt. "That's why I say you shouldn't use alchemy when I'm not with you – so that accidents like this don't happen."

Ed gasped suddenly and sat up straight. "So by trying not to break the rule about the oven I ended up breaking the alchemy rule…" he pouted and slouched again. "I was just so excited about making the cake that I forgot… and now your birthday is ruined. It was supposed to be special."

"Ed, I don't need a cake to have a good birthday. I don't even need a birthday to have a special day."

The boy's eyes flew open wide in shock and then narrowed in confusion. "How can you not need a birthday? They're important! It's the day you get older."

Roy smiled at his son's innocent statement. "You don't just get older in one day. You grow a little bit every day of the year, don't you?"

Ed considered that for a moment and then nodded. "Well… yeah. But Mommy said we have birthdays to celebrate all the good things and growing we did during the year. Everybody gets one – me and Bri and Kale and Elicia and Mommy. So you have to have one too! What about the party and cake? And presents!"

"Who needs presents when I've got you?" Roy shrugged and then laughed at the baffled expression on Ed's face.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. You and your mother are the best presents I could ever ask for. And I don't have to wait for my birthday to enjoy your presence. You're always with me, year round. So every day is a special day." And I'm starting to sound like a cheesy greeting card – what has this kid done to me? Roy groaned internally at how soft he'd grown over the years. That pronouncement reminded him too much of the ridiculously coded phone messages he used to pass back and forth to "Elizabeth" back in the day. Now I actually mean those things when I say them…

But the happy look in his son's eyes more than made up for whatever humiliation he felt at his own fatherly platitudes. And the warmth of his son's embrace was only disturbed by the feeling of a sticky hand pressed against the back of his neck.

"I still wanna make you a cake, though." Ed insisted, leaning back and meeting his father's eyes seriously.

Roy considered the determined look Ed was giving him and decided it might just be worth it to start celebrating his birthday again. So he nodded. "Fine, but we need to get this kitchen cleaned up first. I'll help, but since you made the mess, you're in charge of making sure everything gets done right. Afterwards, I'll help you make the cake."

"No! I wanna do it by myself. Besides… you can't cook."

Roy laughed but grudgingly admitted that his son was right. "Alright, fine. You make the cake and I'll sit here and supervise so that you can use the oven, deal?"

"Deal." They shook on it.

"Now go get the cleaning supplies from the hall closet." He gave his boy a little shove to help him up and then climbed to his own feet as well. While Ed went to get what was needed, Roy looked over the kitchen again and groaned internally at how much work it was going to take to get all of this cleaned up. His eyes drifted to the floor and caught on the partially obscured transmutation circle. He considered what his son had drawn and the careful notations made to account for the chemical breakdown of flour and eggs – the boy must have looked that up somewhere. There was even a rune dedicated to controlling the reaction of sodium bicarbonate which would allow the cake to rise. Actually – the circle was contrived rather well, not perfect of course, but not that bad.

My kid is a freaking genius, he thought, his mind suddenly reeling with the possibilities. There was obviously a lot of research and theorizing that needed to be done but maybe… just maybe, it was possible to transmute a cake after all. Not that he'd be telling his five-year-old son that anytime soon. They didn't need a repeat of this disaster. But maybe someday someone would figure out a practical way to use alchemy in meal preparation. It would certainly be interesting.

Just as long as they don't experiment in my house. He winced as a fat blob of batter suddenly landed on his cheek. He wiped it off and looked up. Right now I've got to figure out how to get cake batter off the ceiling before Riza gets home.

"Hey, Ed?"

"Yeah, Daddy?"

"Let's not tell your mother about this, okay?"