Author's Note: So, this story was a request, and it will probably be updated slower than Northern Waters, which is part of this same AU. Still, I've got the plot pretty much finished for this one, so I'll be sure to add chapters as soon as I can. However, if there are any plot suggestions or anything I may miss in dealing with this pairing, feel free to write a review or message me.

As for the warnings, this story opens with Gilbert on the battlefield, although there isn't anything too graphic or gory depicted. Later on there will be, however, since he will suffer from mild PTSD. There may (will almost certainly) be sexual themes in later chapters, although again, it shouldn't be too explicit. I'll still put warnings over those chapters, though. Now, I really want to warn any potential readers that there will be a character death a few chapters in, although it shouldn't be much of a surprise. It's not a main character, but since there aren't many characters in this story to begin with, I wanted to warn you to be fair.

Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

He stood alone, still breathing heavily though the battle was over, for now. The air was thick and heavy with hot smoke and dirt, and it burned in his throat. He coughed hard, feeling the gritty dirt caking in his mouth. His ears were still ringing loudly from the artillery fire and it left him grappling with the feeling of vertigo. He thought himself as one who knew his way around the battlefield, but they weren't all the same. Gilbert found himself disoriented.

He took a few shallow-feeling steps forward, felt that this was intensely wrong, and stopped. Something told him to try to look for the sun to help him regain his sense of direction, but Gilbert quickly learned that he couldn't turn his head. Panic seized him almost immediately following the confusion. He might have thrashed around in a desperate attempt to move, he certainly tried to cry out, but every action he tried to take seemed to lose its momentum before it could be completed.

What the hell was going on?

It took him a long time, much longer than he would have expected of himself, to realize what was happening. It had been nearly three days since he stood upon that battlefield.

Even though he began to understand, he still saw smoke and dust swirling up into the evening sky above him as he came to realized he was lying on his back. But now, he knew why there was no sun. The brown sky above him finally stopped churning, and materialized into something he was able to fix his eyes on. Cloth. He was in a medical tent.

After another day and a half, his memory returned to him as complete as it would ever be. He remembered standing on the field before his legs collapsed beneath him suddenly. The battle had been over, and for a terrifying moment he had thought they had been fooled, and that their enemy hadn't really retreated, but then German shouting rang out from the direction the bullet had come, and he yelled back louder. He had been shot by a fellow German solider.

Jolted by the terrifying notion that he might have lost his leg, he struggled intensely to move again, even if it was just to wiggle his toes. The movements were stopped by a hot bolt of pain, which shot up his spine almost directly to his eyes. It was such a pure and powerful sensation that it colored his vision completely white for a time. The irrational fear of going blind from sheer pain prevented him from trying to move further.

Then, he heard voices nearby, although they came to him slowly and were followed by eerie echoes, almost as though he were underwater. At first, the noises meant nothing; he just squeezed his eyes shut and wished they would stop. Then, a rougher, tougher voice cut through his daze.

"We might have to amputate it," the voice said and then grunted. "Poor bastard."

Gilbert lost consciousness again with a single, grimly hopeful thought: at least he still had a leg to lose.

Days passed in strange ways; sometimes he felt as though his senses took turns being on alert for the time he was awake. Such as once when he was awakened by a horrid smell, and proceeded to be aware of nothing else but the wretched, disgusting odor for the entire day. After that, his body spent another day shifting between feeling unbearably hot, and bitterly cold. He feared it was due to some kind of fever, but he had never suffered a sickness that could shift his temperature so bizarrely, and it stopped the next day.

In the midst of this, he recalled wanting to go home. However, it wasn't the desire to escape the war, nor was it the search for comfort that fueled this oddly clear notion. There was something there, something wrong. He was needed. Or, he thought he was needed. It was just important that he went home. The longer he pondered this in the short, precious period when the drugs wore off enough to let his mind clear, and before the pain overwhelmed him until the next strong dose, he thought that it might have something to do with his grandfather.

An infinite, blurry time passed, and then he was sharply yanked from his haze by that same, hard voice that had reached him the first time.

"Soldier!" the voice was stern, but not unkind; it reminded him of his grandfather's voice.

He must have responded because the voice lowered a little when he heard it again. "Do you know where you are? Can you tell me your name?"

Gilbert groaned. His throat was dry, and when he swallowed, it ached. The medicine was wearing off now, and the pain was starting to scramble his thoughts, making it hard to focus on the man's questions.

"What is your name, soldier?" the voice demanded of him again.

His eyes cracked open a bit, able to see the shadowy outline of a figure beside him.

"I need to go home," he croaked.

His words were faint, almost inaudible, but the man leaned forward and appeared to catch them.

"Let's just start with your name," he insisted.

Uselessly trying to swallow again, he opened his mouth. "Gil…Gilbert Beilschmidt. I need to get to Rosenheim,"

A higher voice mumbled something a little ways away and the doctor sighed through his nose.

"He's not ready yet. Give him his dose." Then he turned back to him. "We'll talk more soon, Gilbert. Try to rest."

Before he could try to speak again, a cold wave flooded through him, and the already-blurry lines suddenly bled into each other, smearing his vision until the pain retreated and everything went black as he faded away.

Rosenheim…he needed to get to Rosenheim.

It felt like months passed before he was able to honestly wake up and think without being overwhelmed by pain or drugs. However, the first time he was able to sit up and look around, the relief of being able to move was quickly replaced by a feeling similar to dismay. The people surrounding him were the cause of the horrific stench that hung in the air like a noxious gas. The man directly beside him was missing almost half of his face, it seemed, including his nose and his left eye. He was crying from his right. Gilbert thought he was going to be sick.

"Ah, good. You're up." A different voice suddenly addressed him, making him jerk a little and then hiss in pain.

It wasn't the same doctor who had spoken to him before, which made him wary; he felt unbelievably vulnerable. Still, the man checked him over as though he had done it a thousand times, and it was only then that Gilbert saw the bandage on his right thigh. Both legs were still accounted for, however.

"Alright, I have good news and bad news, which do you want to hear first?" he asked.

Annoyed, Gilbert frowned at him. "Tell me it all."

"Well, the good news is you're going home," he offered him a wrinkly smile.

Gilbert did actually consider this good news, and a fair amount of relief washed over him. After all, going home was the only clear thought he'd had since being shot. On the other hand, if his injury was bad enough to send him home…

"The bad news," the doctor's voice fell, and so did his face as he pushed up a pair of tight-fitting, wire-framed glasses. "The bullet hit your femur bone and fractured it. You didn't need any surgery, and you will be able to walk again, but, not for quite some time. Understand?"

He nodded once as he accepted this, looking down at the thick bandaging that covered most of his thigh and knee, holding his leg straight with something like a splint. It hurt horribly, and now that he knew exactly what was hurt, it seemed to amplify the pain. The doctor nodded understandingly and got up to get him medicine. As he did so the other doctor, the one who had spoken to him before, entered and looked at him as he walked by.

"You're going home, kid." he told him simply.

Gilbert lied back slowly, feeling as though he were still dreaming although the intensity of reality was finally catching up to him. He would get see his grandfather. Somehow, he still knew this was very important, and the knowledge that he would be able to do this helped him to relax a little.

"I'm coming home," he muttered quietly as the doctor returned and his eyes began to close. "I'll see you soon."