Title: Familial Comfort

Pairing: Trisha/Al

Rating: PG-13 for disturbing ideas, incest

The only bad thing about it was that it only happened when he was sick. It wasn't anything to get sick for, necessarily, but it was one of those things that happened to make a person feel better, like your mother's chicken soup. It was just as warm, just as comforting, and somehow you wished it could be there all the time, though you weren't sure it would be as good if it was more than a treat.

He didn't like being sick, however, and he was in the course of hiding it rather well this time – if you pretend it's not there, it'll go away – until their mother came out of the house to see what they were doing.

"I made soldiers to go with my horse," Ed announced proudly, holding up a new regiment of three slightly lopsided clay men. Judging from his proud stance, he'd made the best toys that had ever existed.

"That's wonderful!" Trisha Elric exclaimed, clapping her hands together and looking almost as young as they, though somehow much more serene. She beamed at Ed, who grinned back as though Heaven itself had smiled on him, and turned toward her second son. "And what did you make, Alphonse?"

Al shifted his feet in the dirt path that led to their house, squinting against the sun and wishing he'd at least tried to make another horse. "Umm… nothing."

"Nothing?" Trisha blinked brown eyes, surprised. "Nothing to show Mommy?"

"I'm not in the mood," Alphonse tried to say, while Ed loudly answered, "He doesn't feel good."

Al shot his brother an indignant look, lip pushed out in anger. He didn't want to be sick, and he didn't want to worry their mother. "I'm fine," he snapped.

"Yeah?" Ed shot back. "Izzat why you were crying last night and why you just sat here all morning?"

At the announcement of these closely-guarded secrets, Al sucked in a breath to shout at his brother, but their mother was already sliding an arm over Alphonse's shoulder to hold him in place, her other hand going under his bangs and over his forehead. Al let himself be pulled back against her legs, trying not to let the cool touch of her hand feel too nice.

"Alphonse, you poor dear. Why didn't you tell me? Come on, honey. In the house."

She kept her hand on his shoulder to guide him and he clutched at her skirt, relieved. It was hard work trying not to be sick, and now that the truth was out there was no reason to pretend. He stumbled up the front steps, suddenly tired, and Tricia swept him up into her arms to carry him the rest of the way.

She gave him juice and ran a bath, letting him soak while she washed him. It would've been embarrassing if Ed had been there, but their mother, well aware of a growing boy's sensibilities, had sent his brother to play with Winry until supper. She changed him, murmuring soft reassurances, and he closed his eyes, letting her take care of everything.

It was only when the cold sheets woke him that he realized he'd dozed off. He recognized the smell of his mother's bed immediately and he knew it was a privilege to be in it, but he pushed at the covers as Tricia tried to tuck him in. "Mom…"

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart. You need to get well."

"But…" He fretted, unsure how to ask. It seemed like such a baby thing to want what he wanted, but it had always made him feel better before – and now that he was more awake, he felt worse. His throat hurt, and he wanted to be cuddled.

She smoothed his hair back and cupped his cheek. "Do you want something to drink? What is it, honey?"

"I… would you…" He frowned slightly, blushing at being caught requesting a childish ritual, but another glance around the room proved that it was still light out, and Ed wasn't home. He'd be safe asking if he did it now. "Can we… sit in the rocking chair?"

Tricia blinked, then smiled. It was a sweet smile, kind and understanding, and Alphonse felt a swell of love for his mother. She always understood him. Was there anyone nicer in the whole wide world?

She pulled the blankets the rest of the way down and picked him up again. He probably shouldn't enjoy being carried, either, but eight years old was young enough to remember what it was like and still want it every now and then. He clung to her as she settled them in the mahogany rocking chair, pulling the knitted lap rug up over him before slipping her arms inside it and over his chest, holding him close.

"Daddy made this," he said, tracing the carving along one smooth, curling arm.

"Mm-hm. Your Daddy is very clever." She shifted a little and touched his cheek. "Are you comfortable?"

He nodded, yawning, and leaned back against her soft bosom. "Will you do it… like you always do?"

She bent her head to kiss the top of his. "Of course, sweetheart. Just close your eyes and rest."

Tricia started rocking, humming softly, and the even back-and-forth lulled Alphonse into quiet. The heat trapped beneath the blanket helped soothe the ache in his muscles, and he knew that despite his fever he could easily fall asleep here. He was safe and warm… and sleepy… but…

"Momma…" He tried to rouse himself, vaguely anxious lest she leave out an important part of the ritual, but his mother kissed his temple and hugged him gently.

"Sssh. I didn't forget."

"….'kay…"

He lay back again, trusting, and she gave him another kiss before her humming became an actual song. It was soft and familiar, a lullaby she sang to him and his brother when they couldn't sleep. The blanket moved with a minute rustling sound as his mother slid her hand over his chest, massaging the soreness away, and slid her arm downward. The smooth tips of her fingers slipped inside his pajama pants, and Alphonse sank into repose, his head lolling against his mother's shoulder, her gentle caresses and loving song soothing him into sleep.

* * *

It was months later when Tricia collapsed; three months, to be exact. More than long enough to prove to anyone else that it hadn't been their fault, but Alphonse couldn't reconcile the fact that he was the last one in the family who'd been sick. He'd been the one with a cold.

It was his fault their mother was ill.

Dying, whispered the people who came to visit, and to help. The boys steadfastly ignored the murmurs, choosing to believe that their mother, their beautiful, infallible mother, couldn't die. She was just sick, and soon she'd be well and smiling again, up and around and chasing all these well-meaning but annoying people out of the house with a broom.

Well, not really, thought Alphonse, his chin in his hand as he leaned on the edge of Tricia's bed, watching her sleep. Maybe not a broom, exactly. She was too nice for that. The doctor had allowed him to help, despite the old man's obvious misgivings, and now Al changed the cloth on Tricia's forehead, soaking it in the basin next to the bed before replacing it, freshly cool, against her skin.

"… Darling…?"

Al started, surprised, and shot to his feet. "Yes, Momma?"

Tricia stirred, the customary smile coming to her lips though even Al could tell it took an effort. It was still genuine, though, still kind and sweet, and something painful clenched in Al's chest as tired brown eyes fixed on him. "…Alphonse."

"Did you need something, Mom?" he asked, almost desperately eager to do something for her.

"…thought you were… Daddy…"

At that word, Al glanced over his shoulder, sure that Ed would be back and ready to explode about how they didn't need Hohenheim, but there was no sign of his older brother. They were taking turns cooking, and from what he'd seen last time he'd gone to the kitchen to change the water, Ed and today's lunch were having a pretty good fight – and would probably take a while before one of them conceded defeat.

"No, Momma. It's me." He leaned on the mattress again, worried. "Daddy isn't back yet. But I can get whatever you want."

"My beautiful boy…" She raised her hand, reaching out to touch him, and Alphonse clutched at it.

"Anything you want. Are you hungry?"

The smile weakened a little, but Tricia shook her head minutely. "No, sweetheart. I'm fine…"

"But you're sick. I could read you a story…"

"… It's okay, sweetheart… Mommy's fine…"

There had to be something he could do, anything! She shouldn't be in this much discomfort, not someone as nice and angelic as his mother. She never did anything bad to anyone, she was never stingy with cookies or kisses, and her having to be sick without anyone to make her feel better was just… just …!

"Momma." Alphonse leaned close as the idea popped into his head whole and perfect. "I know what to do."

"No, Alphonse, I –"

"You're a grown-up, and it's a baby thing, but –" He almost couldn't say it, except that this was his mother, and he loved her more than anything. If he could help her, even a little bit, then he would do whatever he had to. He drew closer still, his voice low. "But, um… I can do the rocking-chair thing for you if you want. I mean, I can't hold you, but I can do the rest."

Tricia blinked, the exhaustion chased from her gaze with astonishment. Then she laughed, and Alphonse smiled back, glad she was at least a little happier.

"No-one's here to see, if you're worried. Brother's cooking, and the doctor left to go get more medicine."

"Oh… my poor dear… You don't have to… "

Al shook his head vigorously. "No, I want to. I can do it. You can trust me."

"But…"

"You just close your eyes, 'kay, Momma? Let me do everything." He bent over, kissing her damp hairline, then kissed her again. His stomach was hurting now, too, squeezing into a tight knot that threatened to choke his voice. "It'll be okay. I love you."

Tricia shut her eyes, but her smile was gone. She wrapped her arm around Al, holding him as tightly as she could, her grip trembling. "I love you, sweetheart. You're a good boy."

He nodded, pulling back, refusing to cry. She was just sick, that was all. She'd be better soon, and then he'd know that he helped. He'd do something for her, he'd help instead of just sitting here and watching her get worse.

Quickly, carefully, he snuck his hand beneath her coverlet, moving her sweat-soaked dress out of the way. She ought to be in her nightgown, but things were happening so fast…

"Alphonse…"

He glanced up, his fingers on her thigh. "Yes, Momma?"

"Honey…" Her eyes were shut, but her hand touched the arm closest to her, pulling his palm into hers. "If I forget… that you aren't Daddy… Don't be angry… all right?"

"No, Mom." He wasn't sure if he should be proud or not, that she would think he could help her as well as his father might, but he was going to try. "It's okay. I wish Daddy was here, too."

She nodded, her arm falling back onto the covers, her eyes shut. "Thank you, Alphonse… I'm sorry…"

"Mm-mm." He could only shake his head, trying to push back the sadness that threatened to engulf them both. Maybe he knew, on some level, that things weren't going to be okay, but there was nothing to do except try.

His fingers moved easily beneath the elastic of her panties, clammy against the back of his hand, and he slid over the soft nest of curls, glancing at her uncertainly. His mother wasn't built like he and his brother, he knew that much; what if he hurt her? But she smiled, the corners of her mouth trembling, and nodded slightly.

Reassured, he reached further, trying to figure out exactly what he should touch when suddenly Tricia's hand covered his own. Her panties were pushed down over her hips and cool air flowed over their skin, drying the sweat.

"Let Mommy help you, sweetie…"

Their hands slid into the hot, moist crevice between her legs, and Alphonse swallowed hard. It was so much more … soft than he was. Not holding outside, like normal, but inside, tender and wet, like a kiss.

Tricia showed him how he should move, slowly and deliberately, and what fingers to use and where. He paid close attention, looking at her frequently, but her eyes were shut. Her lips moved soundlessly as she pressed his hand closer, the movements picking up speed.

"Oh… Alphonse… good boy…"

It made him glow with pride. He was doing it right! His mother looked distressed, but she was biting her lip and clutching at the blankets the same way she clutched the side of the tub when their father kissed her. He worked more diligently, grim with concentration as if learning a new alchemical equation. He was doing something, helping!

Tricia jerked suddenly, her hips twisting, and Alphonse gasped. "Mom?"

"Darling… Darling, I've missed you!"

Tears sprang to his eyes anew, but he heeded her warning and didn't stop. Her hand pushed his into another place, somewhere deep and even warmer, and at last his touch seemed to do the trick. His mother moaned, tears finally trickling from beneath closed lids, and he cried with her as she called for his father.

* * *

"So? Is Mom awake? You think she's hungry?"

Alphonse blinked tiredly as he held his hands under the kitchen sink's faucet, rinsing his mother's love from his fingertips. "Um… I don't think so. She's sleeping right now."

"Oh." Edward looked disappointed. He set his ladle down, shoulders sagging, and stared into the pot unhappily.

Al knew just how he felt, and hurried to give him a hug despite his wet hands. "Don't worry, Brother. I'm sure there's something you can do for her. Just… give her a little while to rest, okay? I'm sure you'll help her later.