skygiants | an actual full-length fic, what

This fic almost involved kittens and puppies. Then I decided if I went that route I would die of sugar overload without ever completing it, and if I did finish it my beta would die of sugar overload before she could get it back to me. Speaking of: thank you to

genarti for the beta!

Title: Night Shift
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Characters: Al, a little bit of Ed, and OCs
Spoilers/Warnings: Absolutely none! Set pre-series.
Word Count: 3,392
Summary: So I thought, "Al can't possibly spend every night sitting against a wall and brooding, can he?" And then I wrote a fic.

[Author's note: Fullmetal Alchemist takes place in a military dictatorship that has been almost constantly at war since its founding and does not seem to be overly concerned with human rights. I have conveniently decided that this means that they do not have very strict hospital regulations. Or HIPPA.]

Alphonse Elric can’t sleep.

This isn’t anything new.

It’s two hours past midnight and Al’s brother is snoring, flopped on his uninjured side. The stream of visitors has dried up and the babysitters from the military are off-duty for the night. Even soldiers have to sleep sometime. Everyone has to sleep sometime. Everyone who is not Alphonse Elric.

. . . and, apparently, the staff of Sylvester Memorial Hospital.

“What the hell do you mean, Jonas isn’t coming in? When I was an intern, we never –”

The commotion from the hallway is interrupting Al’s regularly scheduled bout of self-pity. He’s made this bargain with himself: he’s not allowed to waste the time that he has to spend with people on bad feelings. When those kinds of feelings come up during the day, when he’s with his friends, he pushes them down; he tells them to come back later. He’s decided it’s okay to feel sorry for himself, to be sad about what happened – maybe even, on the very worst nights, maybe even a little bit angry – but only if he gets it all out of the way in the dark, when he’s alone and nothing else is happening and no one is there to see and feel bad about it too.

But right now something seems to be happening, which sort of throws off his routine.

“Apparently he’s sick.” This second voice sounds younger than the first. “He has the flu, he says he doesn’t want to infect the patients.”

“Oh, and you’ve never heard that one before? Look, you get back on the phone with him and you tell him –”

For a moment Al stays hunched over on the floor for a moment, half-wanting them to go away, but after a second his normal priorities reassert themselves. He has plenty of nights to sit and feel sorry for himself. He clambers to his feet, the joints in his armor suit clanking like they always do, and shuffles over to the door.

He sticks his head out. The plume on top of his helmet bobbles. The two doctors stare at him.

“Um,” he says. “Hi.”

“Great,” says the younger doctor. “You woke up a patient.”

The older doctor shoots her counterpart a scornful look and rakes her hands back through untidy gray hair. “A patient who was sleeping in full armor, Dr. Rosen?”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Al says hastily, trying to keep his voice low – though it’s not like he’s going to wake his brother up regardless. Ed always sleeps like someone hit him over the head.

The old doctor turns her squint to him. “Well, you should be,” she says. “What’s a kid like you doing up so late?” People don’t usually peg Al as a kid so fast, though he always thinks his voice should give him away. But then, there’s the height, and also, the spikes. The doctor doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that this particular kid looms at least three feet above her, though; she’s scowling at him like his old schoolteacher used to when he came late to class.

Al shuffles his feet, like he used to when he came late to class. “I have insomnia,” he offers, which sounds lame even (or perhaps especially) to himself. He needs to get better about these excuses. People always tell Al that he has a terrible poker face, which is kind of depressing given that his face is currently made out of metal and literally not capable of movement. It’s easier when his brother is there to help him out with the lies – not that Ed’s poker face is any better, in fact it’s definitely worse, but at least when there are two of them attention is divided between them so it’s not just doubtful gazes boring holes in his helmet.

“We can probably give you something to help you sleep, if you’d like,” says the younger doctor.

“No!” Al pinwheels his hands in front of him in hasty negation. “I mean, I took a nap earlier too, so I really don’t need to sleep again, so . . .”

He is saved by the arrival of a third doctor, who skids into the hallway at breakneck pace. “Dr. Chen! They need you downstairs, the patient in 22’s been seizing in her sleep again –”

Dr. Chen snarls, throws up her hands. “And if I’m downstairs then who’s covering Ward Three? What the hell is Jonas thinking? He knows how short-staffed we are this week!”

“This month,” mutters Dr. Rosen. “This year.”

“The sleepwalker in 142 –”

“We can pull Arnold off bedpan duty to cover that, but –”

“We’ve had to pull someone off bedpan duty for the past three days!”

“Well, Kozyrskii’s at the end of a thirty-six-hour shift, so we can’t –”

Al coughs awkwardly (he’s never been able to break himself of the habit, even though he shouldn’t really need to cough anymore) and three pairs of eyes turn to him.

Dr. Chen’s eyebrows inch upwards. “Hmmmmmm,” she says.

“Dr. Chen,” says Dr. Rosen, “he’s a patient.”

“Dr. Rosen,” says Dr. Chen, “he’s awake.”

“I’m not really a patient,” Al offers. “I’m just here with my brother.” He’s not really sure why he piped up, given the kind of scary look in Dr. Chen’s eyes and the fact that he is pretty well aware of what bedpans are and what the doctors might want help for, but – it sounds like they need someone, doesn’t it? And it’s got to be better than sitting in the dark listening to his brother snore.

Dr. Rosen says, “He’s a child.”

“Dr. Chen, we don’t have time for this,” says the third doctor, jittering. “The patient in 22 –”

“Children are completely capable of emptying bedpans,” says Dr. Chen, with sudden manic cheer. She reminds Al less of his old schoolteacher now, and more of Major Hughes in full kidnapping mode. “Come on, Dr. Rosen – just think of him as a new volunteer.” She turns to Al. “It’s a good thing you’re wearing that armor suit, kid. Doesn’t take stains. Dr. Rosen, you’ll show him where he needs to go, right?” She skitters off down the hallway after the jittering doctor, leaving a highly dubious Dr. Rosen behind.

Al can’t swallow, and therefore can’t gulp.

He also doesn’t have a nose, which turns out to be a benefit.

They don’t keep him on bedpan duty forever – after he’s done most of the third floor, Dr. Rosen yanks him away down a back staircase. “I don’t like this,” she tells him as she start down the steps. “I can’t deny we’re short on manpower with half the nurses down at the southern front. But if you don’t feel up to it, you come and tell me, all right? We’ll figure something out.”

“I’m up to it!” Al promises her – he’s pretty sure he’s up to anything that’s not emptying more bedpans; just because he can’t smell it doesn’t mean it’s not still gross – and then ventures the question, “Up to what?”

“Emergency ward. We need someone to go run for supplies when things get low. It shouldn’t be too bad, middle of the night, but things can always turn crazy. You know where to find the extra storage closet up here, right?”

Dr. Rosen is taking the steps two at a time, with brisk regular strides that don’t falter. Al clatters as he runs to keep up, and clatters more as he nods agreement. He’s trundled back and forth from there a few times tonight getting cleaning supplies.

“Well, it’s in the same place on the first floor. You just listen to the nurse on duty, and she’ll tell you what they need. Tell Lucia – she’s staffing the supply desk now – that we need her to help with an operation in the pediatric ward. Look, kid –” They’re at the bottom of the staircase now. Dr. Rosen pushes through the door, and shoots a look up at him that conveys the impression of looking down. Not in a mean way, but in a concerned grown-up way. It feels kind of nice. He doesn’t get that look often, these days. “You need a pretty strong stomach down in emergency. I mean it when I say that if you don’t feel up to it, there’s no shame in begging off.”

“I’ll be okay,” Al says, projecting confidence into his voice. He can’t possibly explain why he’s pretty sure emergency isn’t going to get to him. I’ve already been through hell, Ed would say, or something dramatic like that, but Al doesn’t think that’s exactly right. It’s just that it’s hard to be scared of things like that when you’re some people’s nightmare fuel yourself. He wouldn’t tell that to Dr. Rosen, though, even if he could. He likes how everyone here is treating him like he’s just a normal kid who –

“Oh, one more thing,” says Dr. Rosen. “Could you take off that creepy helmet? Some of the patients who come in here aren’t exactly thinking clearly, and it might scare them.”

Al jumps and puts his hands on his helmet in a sudden panic. “Uh, no, I can’t! I have, um, I have a really bad skin condition, and also it’s important for my alchemy training, so, and also –”

Dr. Rosen looks like she wants to argue, and then checks her watch. “If you say so. I’ve got to run to pediatrics, tell Lucia I’ll see her there, you’re down that corner, all right? Good luck.” She marches off down the hallway; Al feels his shoulders drop with relief at the narrow escape, and heads in the opposite direction.

The girl at the emergency supply station looks up at the clank of Al’s footsteps, and her eyes widen slightly. So do those of the patients sitting around the room, waiting their turn to be called in. Al does his best to ignore them all. “Sir,” she says, “if you’re looking for the automail ward –”

“This is armor, not automail,” Al says automatically, and then wishes she hadn’t; she’s giving him an okay, weirdo look. “Uh, I mean, I’m not a patient, actually, I’m a volunteer – Dr. Rosen said to tell you to meet her in the pediatric ward. I mean, if you’re Lucia.” He really hopes she’s Lucia.

“I’m Lucia,” says the nurse. She’s still giving him the weirdo look, but it’s softened and accompanied by a smile. “An operation in pediatrics? Damn. Who’s missing today?”

“Jonas has the flu,” Al explains.

“I bet Chen’s spitting tacks,” Lucia says, with a sudden spark of gleeful schadenfreude, and stands up behind the desk. “Okay – what’s your name?”

“A-Al!” Sometimes Al forgets he can’t really smile, and tries to do it anyway. “Alphonse Elric!”

“Bet they’re sticking you with all the boring jobs, huh. Thanks for helping out, though – it may not seem like much, but every little bit helps during the morgue shift.”

“The morgue shift?”

“You know – late-night. It’s the graveyard shift most places, I guess, but around here we call it the morgue shift. Because we’re in a hospital, and so we’ve got a morgue, get it? Lame joke. Anyway, we almost never get volunteers this late, so when you’re on this shift you’re always stuck working double-time.” She sighs and comes around the desk, reaching over to tweak a stack of papers. “I’m stalling. I really hate pediatric operations. Sure you don’t want to switch with me?”

Al peers at her, trying to see whether she’s serious, and she shakes her head. “I’m just kidding. We’re not that short-staffed that we’re letting untrained volunteers into the operating room. Well, I guess I’d better –”

At this point, a doctor pops his head through a set of doors on the far side of the room. “Lucia! We need more compression bandages over here!”

“Ask Al here! I’m off to pediatrics, he’s covering,” Lucia calls back, and takes off, with one smile over her shoulder. “Good luck, Alphonse Elric!”

“All right, Al,” says the doctor, in exasperation, “will you go get some –”

“I’m going!” Al promises, and launches himself towards the remembered location of the supply closet at a run.

They keep him running all night, back and forth – every new patient who totters through the doors needs more bandages or a different drug or a specialist doctor who’s up in Ward Six. He tries to keep his feet from clanging on the floor too loudly as he pelts through hallways where patients might be sleeping. The one or two times he has a moment at the desk to think, he wonders how Lucia or any of the other nurses can possibly keep up without falling over, in their human bodies that run out of breath.

Al’s seen a lot of hospitals before, but never from this vantage point. Ed never has to come in through the emergency room. Every hospital has a ward dedicated to VIPs, and the doctors know without being told that state alchemists are a valuable resource. So Ed gets a private room where Al can sit and lecture him on his latest reckless injury, and they stay there a few nights and then they’re on their way again, not venturing much further than the hall bathroom. Now – it’s kind of amazing, the range of midnight activity he never knew about. People come in bloody from late-night car accidents or shaking from midnight seizures or flushed with alcohol poisoning; one or two show up red-faced with weird inexplicable injuries that make the doctors snigger and that Al doesn’t even want to know about. A bunch of teenagers stumble in after a big incident with a rogue chimera that Al can’t find out too much about despite his curiosity because the nurses are scarily close to running out of disinfectant. Someone throws up on Al’s foot, and apologizes profusely to Mr. Armor. Someone else mistakes him for a hallucination, and he finds himself holding them apologetically at arm’s length while he shouts for a doctor. The staff cast a jaundiced eye at everything that goes on, and generally don’t take much notice of Al except as a pair of hands to get them things, which is kind of refreshing, in a way. Sure, a seven-foot-tall thirteen-year-old in a giant suit of armor is weird, as Mr. Flynn the janitor informs Al during a lull, but not as weird as the guy last week who managed to shove a whole hammer up his nose.

And every so often someone leaves with their arm wrapped in bandages that Al delivered. And it’s not like he did much, not like a doctor or anything, but it’s kind of satisfying all the same.

Around the time the sky is just starting to shade pale through the glass of the double doors, Lucia comes back to the emergency ward, bluish tired marks under her eyes. Al delivers a pile of towels to the nurse who’d been demanding them and gives her a wave. “Hi, Lucia! How’d the surgery go?”

“Don’t ask,” says Lucia, leaning against the desk. “Damn, I hate pediatrics.” She pulls out a smile from somewhere and puts it on her face. “How’re you doing down here? Wishing you’d never volunteered yet?”

Al laughs – he can do that, even though he can’t smile – and shakes his head. “Actually, it’s really interesting!”

“Interesting’s one word for it,” says Lucia, eyeing him. “Sure you’re okay, Al-kun? I’m going off-shift pretty soon, but the morning shift should be coming in one of these centuries, lazy bums –”

“No, I’m okay!” Al nods vigorously, to show her how okay he is.

Lucia blinks and makes a half-envious face. “You really do sound fresh as a daisy, don’t you? Keep it up, I guess, and don’t let old Flynn boss you around too much. Will you be helping out again tomorrow?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” says Al, suddenly self-conscious. He puts a hand up to his plume and straightens it. “It depends on if my brother’s still here, but if he is, then -”

“Then you’ll probably want to catch up on your sleep,” Lucia says, with a grin, and Al ducks his head – which he always does, and then remembers a second too late that he doesn’t need to, because his face is made of metal. This is part of the reason that he has a terrible poker face. “But any time you want to help out, you’ll be welcome.”

“Ah - thank you!” Al says, feeling himself brighten. He bobs a quick bow. “Thank you very much!”

Then Dr. Gillen gives a shout, wanting to know where the syringes are, and Al has to take off again, and then he’s running back and forth some more for the next hour or two until someone politely taps him on the shoulder and says, “Alphonse Elric? Fullmetal’s brother?”

“Huh? Uh – that’s me,” says Al, turning around.

“Your brother sent me to look for you,” says the man in army blues, still very polite. “Something about you being abducted.”

“Huh? Oh!” Al looks at the light streaming in the doors at a day that is now well-lit by the sun. “I didn’t realize how late it was . . . uh, I’ll be right there! Once the morning shift gets here and –”

“Go on, kid,” says Dr. Gillen, who has been listening to the second half of the conversation. “We’ve got enough people to cover now – you’ve been helping out how many hours? Get some rest!”

“Thanks, Dr. Gillen!” Al says, and runs off back up towards Ed’s room, taking the stairs two at a time.

He can’t believe it – not once, in the three years since he lost his body, has he failed to notice the sunrise.

“Al!” says Ed, sitting bolt upright as soon as he comes in. “Where were you? We’ve got to get going right away. The bastard Colonel says he’s got a lead for us over in West City.”

Al eyes the bandages wrapped around Ed’s flesh-and-blood arm, and the bolt taped onto the automail one. “Are you okay to leave the hospital, brother? Shouldn’t you at least check with Winry whether your automail’s okay?”

Ed waves the human hand dismissively. “Whatever! I’m fine. And I don’t want to spend another day in the stupid hospital. Come on, where’s my shirt?” He leans over to rummage in his luggage.

“I’ll be right back,” Al says, and backs out of the room as the frenzy of clothes flying out from Ed’s suitcase starts to build to a small tornado.

“Excuse me,” he says, to the first nurse he can find, “do you know if Dr. Chen or Dr. Rosen is around?”

“Dr. Chen’s in the operating room,” says the nurse. “Dr. Rosen’s with a patient’s family. Do you need something?”

What does he want to say? “Um, if you could just tell them hi, I guess. From Alphonse - the kid in armor. Uh, and that I won’t be back tomorrow night, but I’m sure I’ll be back sometime soon, and I’ll definitely help them out again, so – oh, and if you could tell Lucia too!”

“All that?” says the nurse dryly, but she nods. “Okay, kid, I’ll tell them.”

“Thanks!” says Al, and ducks back into his brother’s room just in time to get hit in the face by a flying pair of pants.

It’s daytime, all right.

He spends the rest of the day trooping after Ed as his brother harasses Lt. Havoc’s men into making their travel arrangements. When the night comes around, he’s on a train, staring out the window at the nightscape as it passes by. They check into a hotel room in West City the night after that, waiting to see if they can smoke out the Colonel’s contact. Al sits on one bed and watches Ed sleeping on the other, automail rattling ominously with every snore.

It’s eleven o’clock, and there’s a long night ahead.

Coming to an abrupt decision, Al pushes himself to his feet and goes down to the hotel desk. There’s one man awake, eyes drooping and looking like he’s ready to clock out. “Uh, excuse me,” he says, and the man jerks upright and blinks sleepily at him. “Do you know if there’s a hospital near here?”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

oneechan19.livejournal.com

I love this! I can totally see Al doing this.

From:

an actual full-length fic, what

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