Yeah, I wrote this having FMA in mind, but Edward's characterization seems more like Karkat that anything else, so if this story doesn't go down well over here in the FMA section, it could be deleted and moved to the Homestuck section. Just a heads up.

My name is Edward and I'm not crazy.

That's what you'd expect someone crazy to say, though, so I don't actually say this out loud to my "counselor" when he asks for my name and how I'm doing.

"Edward." I say. He can't possibly be too interested in how I'm doing, and I'm not too interested in telling him I feel like screaming until my vocal chords shatter, if that's a thing that can even happen. I don't ask him if it is. I glare at him and hope he gets the message I'm not going to be the crying type. I can imagine he gets nutcases like that all day. I might be refreshing for a change.

He doesn't look refreshed, though. His tired expression screams (like I would if I could) of annoyance and that oh-so-familiar eye-twitching wish-I-could-be-anywhere-but-here feeling. I bet I have the same thing written across my face. Maybe I'm just like every other kid who can't keep his fists to himself, maybe this isn't where they send whack jobs.

The expression falls off his face expertly once he looks up at me from his notes. He has more of a gently concerned air to him, the furrowed brows, that twinge of faux-understanding in his coal-black eyes, the slight curve to his lips, and I think I want to scream louder than before. What a damn poser.

"Well, Edward, it's nice to meet you."

"The feelings far from mutual, doctor." I growl, crossing my arms.

He doesn't seem phased in the least.

"Yes, well, I would come to expect no less from someone of your reputation."

What kind of a bastard therapist is this "Colonel" Mustang. Colonel? He's probably never seen a gun in his entire life, but he holds himself tall as if he's won the right to through thousands of battles. He's making me absolutely sick.

"Tell me, Edward, why did the judge assign you nine months of therapy?"

"Because he probably thinks I'm some deranged psycho."

I feel like a witness being led by a dumbass lawyer's silver tongue. Aren't therapist supposed to make you feel better about stuff? Like, hey, man, your life's not complete shit. You've still got it.

This Colonel Mustang probably fell ass-backwards into his profession.

"And what could you have possibly done to give him that impression?"

"I…" He knows what happened. I can see it in his smug little poker face. He just wants a confession, like it's not something he's staring at in those dumb notes of his. "I hit a kid."

"How many stiches did he need?"

"Individual stitches, are you crazy? I don't know."

"Edward." He says warningly, as if he can touch me, as if he can do anything to me. He sounds vaguely patient for someone who also wants to be far away from here, so I don't make a bigger fuss over it.

"Sixteen."

"Quite a number, isn't it?"

"Sure." I want to choke him, oh my god, I want to choke him.

"And this kid wasn't the only person needing an ambulance, was he?"

"No, not technically."

"You also injured a cop."

"Yeah. I wouldn't be sentenced to this hell if I didn't do something deserving."

"And how long has he been in the hospital?"

"Two months. What can I say, the legal system's slower than that bearded bastard coming home for Thanksgiving."

"You're referring to your father?"

"It would be a pretty shitty comparison if I wasn't."

"You don't like your father?"

"Hard to like someone who does nothing but cause problems."

"Is he normally late to Thanksgiving, then? Or does he not show up at all?"

"You're ruining a perfectly good literary device, but, yeah, it's because he never shows his face on Thanksgiving. He doesn't show his face at all."

"He abandoned you?"

"Would it be easier for you to get if I had it tattooed to my forehead?"

"I see. You have a brother, right? Alphonse?"

"The fact that you know his name negates the question."

"Yes," he gives a sad little laugh, as if his lungs need sixteen stitches themselves, "I suppose it does. You're very fond of your brother, are you not?"

"I am."

Fond is a term I'd never use myself, but…the bastard's right on the money. Alphonse is the only good thing that I've ever been allowed. He's my little brother and I love him. I'll scream it from the roof tops and send it written on Christmas cards and I'll engrave it on my tombstone so deeply not even an eternity of erosion could warp it into something unintelligible.

"You support him yourself, for the most part?"

This isn't heading anywhere good. He's going to try and tell me how terrible that is, he'll stare at me with doleful eyes, and explain all the wonderful things child services has done in the past.

"Yes." I say guardedly.

"How old are you?"

He's going to try to take me away from Al, just like everyone else.

"…Thirteen."

"You do realize you've put not only your life and your future at risk, but also your brother's?"

Anger is snapping in my head like flamed whips and my knuckles go ghost-white as my fists clench like a gun being loaded, just waiting to go off. I can't think, there's only white hot noise in my head and I feel like I'm diet coke and this idiot just dropped a whole Mentos factory into my caffeinated depths.

"What gives you the right to accuse me of going against everything I stand for and sugar coat it like a question you don't know the answer to? You probably know more about my situation than I do, I bet you know where the bearded bastard is or how many jobs I've had when I've lost count myself, and I bet you have every report card I've ever had tucked away in your files somewhere for your cold soulless eyes to pry at later, and still you sit here like you're so far above me, and you know who does all that? You know who only asks questions they know the answer to, and looks down on everyone? Stiffs in black pantsuits with a 7,500 pay check that graces their spotless counter every month for spending a few hours in court, and you may think that you know everything about this case, but guess what? You're not a lawyer, you're a therapist, you don't get to crack this case, Colonel, if you've ever been in an actual war, you don't get to ambush me or shoot me until I stop breathing, that's not how it works! What you do here, in this pig sty of an office, it has the potential to save lives, but all you care about is getting home and seeing your own pay check on your counter and I hope that's enough for you to get a full night's rest because your patients sure as hell aren't getting any sleep!"

I storm out of his office, but not before catching a glimpse at his face.

There are deeper shadows around his face, there's nothing smug about his frown, and his eyes look a sincere degree of pained and concerned.

His blonde assistant keeps me from leaving without a single threat to my person. She just informs me that if I don't spend the whole hour in there talking to Mustang, then my sentence will be lengthened.

So I reenter the room, and sit back down.

"Sorry."

I'm willing to admit that I actually mean it.

He looks up at me with a mix of amusement and melancholy scrawled out on his face.

"Kid, you sure are something."

What.

"What."

What.

"It's been a long while since I've had a spitfire patient like yourself, Edward. They'll glare at me and they'll answer questions, and some of them will just answer the questions without a glare, but they don't ever start to talk. I'll be honest with you, Edward, because you seem like a smart kid, the questions make them feel acknowledged. That's what every kid who walks through this door needs." He steeples his hands and raise them until they touch his lips, "Except you. There's something else here that's missing. And believe you me, I will find it."