Author's Note: This is my first attempt at FMA fanfiction, and while the subject matter might be cliche, I can just about gaurantee that this fic isn't. XD;; I hope you all enjoy it. Don't forget to review!

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist don't belong to me, no way, no how. Original characters do. Leave them be.

"He is colder than the winter
I wrap my coat around to better
Counteract this charm attack
Well, I'm no savior
But I tried to save you"

- "Charm Attack" by Leona Ness

Chapter One

Metal was cold in winter. It was easy to forget that when Ed had spent so much time in the desert, sweating and bleeding from sunburned lips. But now he was in Central and it was nearing January. Bitter northern winds buffeted him as he slouched his way from the library back to the dorms, a promise of snow hanging heavily in the leaden evening sky.

His automail ports ached from the cold, and with each step he heard the contracting squeak-eak of chilled synthetic muscles. He tried to keep his right arm from brushing against his body too much – even through multiple layers of fabric, he could still feel the heat leeching from him when it touched him. He felt old, and thought that it really wasn't fair. He was barely sixteen, far too early to have arthritis. He would almost miss the desert itself, except that the sand got into his ports and hurt even more, and the dust was a bitch to clean from the joints. Still, it sometimes seemed that his automail arm and leg never properly warmed until spring. Not even sitting in front of a fire for hours banished the chill.

Also, it certainly didn't help that Ed had had to vary his path back to the dorms. The fame of the Fullmetal Alchemist dogged him wherever he went. When he took the same route home every night, people started to 'accidentally' bump into him and want autographs. Sometimes it felt like the whole city was stalking him, waiting for a chance gush over his accomplishments. And now that he was getting older, they were starting to just gush over him.

He'd turned down at least five dates in the past week, a fact he'd marveled at and been slightly perturbed by. Marveled that so many girls had wanted him, but perturbed because he knew they viewed him as some kind of hero, almost a god. It was in their starstruck, adoring gazes, and it made him very uncomfortable, especially once they started telling him how wonderful he was. He wanted to snarl at them that they didn't know what the hell they were talking about.

The ache from the cold was just another reminder of how wrong they were. Ed knew that his mistakes far outweighed any of the good he might have done. Anyone who said otherwise didn't know a damn thing and didn't have the right, except Al. Who really wasn't much better sometimes, but at least he'd been there through almost all of it with him.

Ed shivered and hitched his coat over his shoulders more tightly as another gust flung ice crystals into his face. He wished he'd remembered his scarf. He suddenly had an image of himself with frostbite so bad Winry had to make him an automail nose. He huffed a half-amused breath out and sniffled experimentally. Still functional.

"Lost, Fullmetal?"

Ed managed not to jump at the voice, but he did whirl around with a vengeance.

"Who's so short that a compass needle is taller than him?" he demanded in outrage.

Behind him stood an amused Colonel Mustang, the door of the shop he just exited chiming cheerily as it shut. He held a plain brown sack in his arms. Edward tried not to look surprised. Somehow he'd never pictured the Colonel doing something so… normal as grocery shopping. He'd assumed the man would send Fury or someone to do it for him. Rank and privileges and all that.

Mustang followed his gaze and his eyebrow rose. As if reading Ed's mind, he said, "No, I'm not above buying my own food. I thought you were going to be researching tonight. Aren't you a bit far from the library?"

"Lat time I checked, I don't have to get your permission to take a walk," Ed bristled automatically.

"I was just asking," Mustang said. "Isn't it a bit cold for a casual stroll?"

"I'm on my way home, actually, so the less time you chat the sooner I can get inside," he replied sourly. He was in too foul a mood to put up with the Colonel. Granted, the man hadn't been condescending just yet, but Ed wouldn't be lulled into complacency by the lack of short jokes.

Mustang just rolled his eyes, exasperated but not irritated. "Come on, then," he said, and started walking.

"What?" Ed asked, startled.

"It's a long walk back to the dorms, but I don't live very far from here. You may as well help me drink some of this coffee I bought," he said blandly as he walked by.

"I don't like coffee," Ed said to the man's back.

Mustang shrugged without turning. "Suit yourself. Say hello to Alphonse for me."

Ed clamped down on the indignant sputtering he felt rising in his throat and it came out as a low growl. Which was echoed by his empty stomach. He stared after Mustang, calculating – after all, the man had an armful of food that he wouldn't have had time to poison - and then shook himself.

"Wait up, you long-legged freak!"

The Colonel paused and half-turned, a smirk on his face above the blue muffler he had wrapped high around his throat. Ed resisted the urge to take his momentum from running and carry it through into a punch that would wipe that expression from Mustang's face.

"Changed your mind?" Mustang asked innocently.

"I can always change it again later," Ed said.

"How typical."

"What's that supposed to mean?

"Nothing at all, Fullmetal. Nothing at all."

He eyed Mustang suspiciously as they started walking again. He wanted to demand why the Colonel, who for all intents and purposes viewed Ed as nothing more than a useful nuisance, was inviting him over to his home. There had to be some kind of motive, some serpentine machination that would be furthered by this. But Ed was cold, getting colder now that the dim sky was fading to black. A five minute break to get the feeling back in his cheeks wouldn't kill him, even if they were five minutes in Mustang's company. Besides, food. He hadn't eaten since he'd left this morning, which was over eight hours ago.

"What brought you so far out of your way in the first place, Ed?"

Like hell he'd tell the man he was avoiding overeager fans. Mustang would probably just use it as ammo in the next verbal sparring match somehow. After all, it wasn't like he didn't enjoy his fame, or rather infamy.

"I like a change of pace every once in a while," Ed said.

"Hm. Well, next time wear a thicker coat. The way you're hunched up like that is giving me the shivers," Mustang said.

"You're bossy even when you're trying to make small talk, Colonel," he replied with a hint of a snarl and he unconsciously hitched his coat again.

"Hey, Ed. Chill," Mustang quipped lightly.

"You think you're so damn funny," Ed grumbled. "What's with the sudden interest in my walking habits?"

"Have you been reading the paper lately?"

"Why should I? S'not like there'll be a big ad for a philosopher's stone in the For Sale section."

Mustang made a soft huffing sound that might almost have been a chuckle. "You've got a one-track mind, Fullmetal."

"You're one to talk, Colonel Whatever-Gets-Me-a-Promotion-or-a-Date," he retorted.

"That's two tracks."

"Shut up."

"At any rate, the point is there have been several missing persons lately, more than usual I suppose –"

"Oh, so you don't think I can take care of myself against some half-assed kidnappers?" Ed snarled, no hinting about it this time. It was too much. "I can go to parts unknown to do your dirty work, but going to the library is suddenly too dangerous for me?"

Mustang slid him an unamused look through narrowed eyes. "Does the name Barry the Chopper ring a bell?"

"I was twelve!"

"And you're just as oblivious now as you were then when you've got your head full of your research for your brother. You didn't even know there was a kidnapper on the loose," the man pointed out seriously.

"I've had worse ambushes from Hughes with his photograph albums."

"That's no reason to be carelessly unaware of your surroundings, Fullmetal," Mustang retorted, voice only slightly warmer than the rapidly dropping temperature. He stopped suddenly and glanced around. Ed paused as well, feet automatically falling into an attack stance.

"What is it?"

Mustang didn't respond, his lips pressed firmly together as he turned on his heel and backtracked ten feet to the door of a brick townhouse. Ed was confused for a moment before he heard the man fumbling in his pocket for his keys. An ear-to-ear grin split Ed's face as he relaxed.

"You were saying, Colonel?" he asked sweetly, coming to stand behind his superior officer on the low stone steps.

"Shut up, Fullmetal, or I'm not giving you so much as a cracker."

Ed couldn't help the snigger but he did bite his tongue to keep from addition ribbing. He was hungry, after all. Mustang opened his door and dim but warm yellow light spilled forth. The man went inside, leaving the door open for him to follow. Ed paused in the doorway as Mustang set his grocery bag on a small shelf in the entry way and began shucking his winter garb.

Mustang's sitting room was not how Edward would have pictured it, if he'd ever bothered to picture the place where his superior spent his time out of the office. Cream walls with mahogany trim were hung with tasteful paintings in muted colors. The light came from brass kerosene sconces with the wicks turned low to conserve fuel, and bookshelves lined the far left wall. The fireplace with its banked and screened blaze was set in the wall opposite the door, the large stone mantle decked with pictures in frames. There was a large, overstuffed leather armchair and a matching couch with a dark wood coffee table in front, and end-tables with brass lamps on them for reading. A coffee mug and a disheveled newspaper sat on the corner of the coffee table nearest the armchair, which had a more worn look to it than the couch.

It looked… cozy. Lived-in. It startled Ed into staring bemusedly. And here he'd had the Colonel pegged as an austere sort who'd favor Spartan surroundings at a home he rarely spent time in, more concerned with his ambitions and dates. Suddenly Edward felt as if he was intruding and wondered if he should make some excuse about the time and continue on his way.

"Close the damn door, Fullmetal. You're letting the heat out," Mustang commanded brusquely.

Ed blinked and tried not to look sheepish as he reached for the doorknob. He paused when he heard a muffled sound from outside. Unease prickled through him and he stood waiting, hoping he'd imagined it. No, there it was again – the solid thudding of flesh hitting pavement, and a subdued but still terrified voice not forming words.

He was out the door and running towards the sound without even acknowledging the startled "Edward!" that Mustang called after him. He traced the noises as quickly as he could, and they had to be close or he wouldn't have heard anything at all. He skidded when he spotted the alley between two of the townhouses, so narrow it was more of a walkway than a real alley. He backpedaled and stared down its length.

Sure enough, barely visible in the rising darkness, two figures were locked in some kind of fierce tableau. The taller figure was backed against the wall, one of the shorter figure's hands pressing against its mouth to muffle the terrified wails that were fighting to break free. The shorter figure was holding both of the first's wrists in one hand, pinning them to the brick beside them. The short figure's head was leaning in a languid, smug way closer and closer to the taller's exposed neck, and Ed felt nauseous. Mustang hadn't mentioned that the kidnapper also molested his victims.

"Hey!" Ed shouted before he even thought, transmuting his automail hand into a blade simultaneously.

The flare of light at the alchemical reaction showed the attacker and victim clearly, both having turned at the noise. First of all, the tall figure was not actually tall – the hands that held the wild-eyed, tear-streaked girl prisoner also had her suspended a full foot and a half above the ground. The attacker was equally wild-eyed and his face was twisted into an animalistic snarl as he turned to face Ed, dropping the girl abruptly as he rushed forward.

Ed's reflexes were nothing short of impeccable, but he couldn't even follow the movement of this guy. One second he was a good fifteen feet away, the next he was careening into Ed full tilt and bearing him to the pavement, the hand wrapped around his right wrist easily overcoming the strength of his automail. Ed saw stars as his head bounced off the unforgiving cobbles, and when his vision cleared he was staring into flaming orange-and-yellow eyes and mouthful of viciously pointed teeth that had no business being in a human mouth. His attacker reared back, raising a fist to pummel him, and actually hissed at him. It was not a human sound, and it shot barbed spikes of some basic, primal horror through him – a mouse caught in the claws of a cat –

Just then there was a quiet snap followed by a huge flare of heat and light that blinded Ed. His attacker shrieked and suddenly Ed was free. He rolled instinctively, curling to cover his head. And just as suddenly as everything began the night was dark and still save for the sound of hysterical sobbing and his own blood rushing in his ears.

Cautiously, he sat up and his head swam as he tried to focus his eyes. A wave of nausea, stronger than before, washed over him and he swallowed desperately. Shit, shit, shit. He'd been through enough fights gone wrong to know a concussion when he felt one.

"Fullmetal." Ah, the Colonel. That explained the fireworks. "Are you all right?"

"Th- the girl," he grit out, now attempting to stand as he squinted against the hammering in his skull.He didn't look up at him, kept his eyes fixed on the ground while his stomach flip-flopped as if gravity was on the fritz. He heard Mustang's brisk tread on the cobblestones. As the man's voice began speaking in soothing tones to the girl, Ed finally lost control of his limbs and his belly – he fell to the ground and retched miserably, but there wasn't anything in his stomach to dispel besides acrid bile.

After a few moments, he recovered enough to breathe, and he spat, wiping his mouth with his gloved left hand. He was angry with himself now, and he determinedly staggered to his feet, stumbling over to the brick wall of the nearest house to lean on. He was spared the necessity of going into the alley, though, because Mustang chose that moment to emerge with the girl under one arm.

Ed almost laughed – even now, the bastard was flirting! – but he thought that if he spoke he might vomit again. When he saw Ed, though, Mustang's grave look deepened and he released the girl.

"Fullmetal, how many fingers am I holding up?" he asked. Ed squinted, watching Mustang's three hands swirl vaguely.

"It's cheating - to use more than - one hand - bastard," he managed to say between throbs.

Mustang nodded as if this was the answer he expected. "Cynthia, would you help Edward into my house while I find your parents?"

"Yes, Mr. Roy," the girl said, and Ed almost laughed again. Mr. Roy. That was hilarious for some reason. He hoped it wasn't brain damage.

---------------------------------------

Half an hour later saw Ed sitting on Mustang's couch as a physician shined a gratingly bright light into his eyes. At least this was slightly less painful than the prodding he'd undergone a few moments before. The old man attached to the police unit Mustang had called was not unkind, but Ed's head hurt, dammit, and poking at it did not help. At least he was warming up at last. He'd giving his statement through chattering teeth.

The light was put away and Ed blinked spots from his vision.

"Well, young man, you're very lucky," the doctor said in an old-timer-ish voice that Ed could easily imagine calling him a 'whippersnapper.' "You have a concussion, but you didn't break your head. I'll give you a prescription for some painkillers, and you're get a lot of rest for the next few days. But under no circumstances should you sleep for more than an hour at a time. Have someone wake you up regularly. I don't think there's much chance of you slipping into a coma, but it's possible."

Ed resisted the urge to sneer at the man that he knew how to deal with concussions, but he lacked the energy. The old man stood and left after he put a piece of scribbled-upon paper Ed assumed was the prescription into his lax right hand – he'd had the presence of mind to transmute it back to its normal state when Cynthia had brought him inside.

He looked over to where the girl – a few younger than he was – stood next to her somber father and tearful mother as she told the police what happened for what seemed the fortieth time. Ed wondered why the police bothered to write any of this down if they were just going to listen to it so many times they could quote it from memory.

Cynthia was apparently Roy's neighbor from several doors down, and she'd been walking home from her aunt's house when that creep had jumped her and pulled her into the alley. Ed heard the scuffle and rushed to the rescue. Mustang had followed him and scared the bastard off with the pyrotechnics – probably would have fried him if he hadn't been sitting on top of Ed. Mustang hadn't seen where he'd gone, either, which was odd. Mustang was one of the most observant people Ed knew this side of Hughes. It wasn't like him to just miss the guy's escape.

Of course, that was not the only odd thing. Ed hadn't mentioned the teeth and eyes, and neither had Cynthia. Maybe she hadn't seen, but he'd certainly gotten a good look. That and the way the guy moved… He wasn't certain which he distrusted more – his concussion-addled memories or the police's credulity.

The entire situation was not sitting well with him. Especially when he saw how Cynthia's parents were fussing over her. Not that he didn't understand; he i did /i , but it just made him more aware of Al's absence. He wanted his little brother's reassuring, steady presence right now, even if Al would be upset about him getting hurt.

He hunched in on himself, pulling the blanket the Colonel had produced for him tighter around his shoulders. He stared into the fire, running over the events in his mind, looking for some kind of clue. The only explanation he kept coming back to was that the attacker had to have been some kind of chimera, a human and animal chimera.

"Edward, let's go play. You promised."

The shudder that shot through him had nothing to do with the lingering chill in his automail ports.

A hand on his left shoulder made him jerk and then wince. He looked up. Mustang was looking at him with some indiscernible expression and offering a mug of… tea. How about that. The bastard actually remembered that he didn't like coffee.

"Thanks," he mumbled, taking the cup.

"You're welcome. How are you holding up?"

Edward shrugged carefully. His head wasn't the only thing that'd taken a knock when he'd landed. His shoulderblades and back felt like one solid bruise, and there was a scrape on his cheek he still needed to wash out.

"Been through worse," he said, sipping his tea. "How's Cynthia?"

"She's not hurt, just very shaken. Her parents are taking her home," Mustang replied, leaning on the arm of the couch. He cleared his throat. "Speaking of which –"

"I'll call Al, he'll take me back to the dorms," Ed interrupted.

"No, he won't," Mustang said, so firmly Ed struggled to adjust his blurry vision to stare at the man. He seemed perfectly serious. "I've called Hawkeye. She's on her way to the dorms now to pick him up."

"What? Why?"

"You're in no condition to be going anywhere, Fullmetal, and the doctor prescribed rest. You'll be staying here until you're well enough to make it back to the dorms," Mustang explained. "Especially since you seem to be able to find trouble even when you're not looking for it."

Ed blinked owlishly, a bizarre mix of irritation, relief, suspicion, and awkwardness warring for dominance inside him. Mustang was letting him stay here, letting Al stay here in his home. Ed supposed he should be grateful, but that's where the irritation came in. It was so like Mustang to order him under house arrest and arrange for it in that high-handed manner of his. And since when did he give a damn?

"S'not like this was my fault," Ed grumbled, glaring into his teacup. "If I hadn't heard –"

"I never said it was your fault," Mustang replied. "If you hadn't heard, then Cynthia would probably have been in the paper tomorrow morning. I'm glad you acted so quickly, even if it didn't go as well as it could have. Mr. and Mrs. Gooding are even more thankful, not to mention Cynthia herself. She's a good kid."

Ed made a noncommittal noise into his tea. It was good , strong black breakfast tea with honey in it. He wondered at that, that Mustang would think to sweeten it for him. An unexpected gesture from a man who seemed so uncaring and aloof. But then, there didn't seem to be a single thing this evening that had not been strange since he'd run into the Colonel.

"Colonel Mustang, we're finished here," one of the cops came up to say. "Thanks for your cooperation."

"It was our pleasure to help," Mustang said seriously, shaking the man's hand. "Let me show you the door."

Ed stared out the window into the night as his superior bid all his guests good night. It had started to snow, looking deceptively peaceful. Just once he wanted to see that classical ideal of the moods of man and nature mirroring each other. It should have been storming with howling winds and the eerie green flashes of winter lightning.

Finally, Mustang shut the door and sat down with a heavy, tired sigh in the overstuffed chair.

"Colonel," Ed began and paused, contemplating the best way to bring this up. "Did you… did you get a good look at that guy?"

"You were listening, weren't you, Fullmetal? All I saw was some punk doing his best intimately introduce your hard head to the asphault," Mustang said, staring into the fire.

"That's all?"

Something in his tone must have given his unease away, because Mustang turned his coal gaze to meet Ed's.

"What do you think I should have seen?"

"I – I dunno. Things were a bit confusing for me, but… It wasn't right. It wasn't… natural. The way he moved, his – his face. Maybe it was the concussion but… He had fucking fangs, Mustang," Ed ground out. "And his eyes weren't normal, either."

"Well, I'd imagine a serial killer would look a bit deranged in the heat of the moment," Mustang said dryly.

"Dammit, not like that. I've seen my fair share of those. This was like something out of a dime-store horror novel. And you have to admit that he vanished too quickly. Where'd he run to? Cynthia didn't see him run past in the alley, and you didn't see him running down the street. How could he have gotten away so fast?" Ed demanded, trying to keep his temper under control simply because even his normal speaking voice made his head throb harder.

Mustang frowned. He had shucked his uniform jacket and boots, and his white button-down shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, but for all that he still didn't seem relaxed. For a man who sat at a desk every day, he still had well-defined muscles, and those visible in his forearms were tense, as was the set of his shoulders and jaw. Ed didn't blame him.

"We were all a bit dazzled by my flare," Mustang said at last. "It's possible he managed to hide somewhere before running after we split up."

Ed frowned back at him. "Come here for a second."

"What?"

"Look, you shitty Colonel, didn't anyone ever tell you not to aggravate an invalid? Now get your ass over here," Ed commanded.

"If you want to be humored, I suppose," Mustang said, rolling his eyes as he stood and shuffled to stand in front of Ed. "Yes?"

"Not there, idiot. There," Ed said, gesturing at the side of the coffee table across from him.

Mustang looked bemused as he did so, but his eyebrows rose when Ed leaned forward and put his right arm on the coffee table in an obvious arm-wrestling pose.

"What on earth are you trying to prove, Fullmetal?"

"I thought you were humoring me, bastard. Come on, let's go."

Mustang frowned again, searching Ed's face for something. Ed didn't flinch, even if his eyes still weren't exactly obeying his commands. Finally, Mustang huffed a breath of annoyance and knelt, accepting the challenging arm in his own.

"On three," he said. "One, two, three!"

Ed was careful in that he didn't break his commanding officer's wrist, but Mustang, though Ed could see his forearm muscles were straining for all they were worth, couldn't budge his hand from the were Ed had it pinned. He couldn't help a slightly juvenile thrill of satisfaction, even if it was an unfair fight. He looked smug when Mustang shook his hand out after being released.

"Okay," Mustang said reproachfully. "What was the point of that? If there was one at all."

Ed ditched his small smirk, staring with as much focus as he could muster into Mustang's glare.

"I'm still concussed, still in pain, still delirious or whatever else kind of bullshit excuse you can think of that might make you think I have no idea what I really saw back there," he began. "But my automail is still stronger than anything flesh. That guy… he didn't have automail, but he had me nailed down with one hand. Think about that, Mustang."

The Colonel paled. Ed opened his mouth to press his advantage, but a knock at the door made them both jump. A second later, the door burst open and Al and Hawkeye entered.

"Brother! Are you all right? What happened?" Al demanded loudly and rapidly from obvious worry, and he hurried to Ed's side. Each clanging footstep resounded in Ed's head like gunshots, and he did his best not to cringe.

"I'm okay, really, Al," he said. "I've got it from several sources that I'm hardheaded. It's just a concussion."

"Just a concussion? Then what happened to your face? Did you even wash this out yet?"

"Er, well, we were kind of busy with the cops and –"

"Brother," Al said in a chastising tone. "You really need to start taking better care of yourself. You could have at least had the doctor look at it."

"I know, I know, sorry," he said sheepishly.

Al was glaring at him as best as a suit of armor could. Ed settled himself in for a long lecture and interrogation. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Mustang, who had gotten up to talk in muted voices to Hawkeye by the door. The man did not look unnerved anymore, but Ed knew he'd gotten his point cross. Once he had Al filled in, he had a feeling they'd be doing some poking around. If it had just been another serial killer like Barry the Chopper, Ed might have left well enough alone, but this situation was starting to smell like alchemy. He knew he couldn't let it slide.

"You promised."

He'd get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

TBC