Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.
Three Days Later
- x -
"She's twenty?"
Breda rubbed his cheek irritably, biting back the snap just in time. "Checked it twice."
"Lily Ponmsdaf," Falman murmured, standing at attention behind the seat instead of taking it. Hawkeye didn't give any indication that she cared, watching him steadily as he read the same report she had. "Her parents died the same year his did."
"They grew up in the same house." Heymans modulated his voice slightly as he addressed the colonel. "The kid Al pointed us towards, Arei, confirmed it. Seems it's not weird for the orphans to marry early and older. Poor kid was alone as soon as doc went into med school, so no one thought anything of it when she hooked up with Blane."
Which was a nice way of saying the woman - who looked to be easily in her late twenties thanks to years of constant stress and fear - had become Blane's slave. In every sense of the word. She'd refused to be checked out by the HQ hospital and was begging them for a new identity and a modest apartment in South City. At her own request she was isolated from the other Jannai townsfolk and was refusing to see any of them, though many had inquired about her.
"She called Patterson her brother." Among other things, less polite but no less familiar. "Not blood, unfortunately."
Hawkeye inclined her head. "I noticed." If she had been a blood relative, they had a stronger case. Despite the fact that they had grown up essentially brother and sister, all the jury would see was childhood friends.
And killing the Prime Minister of Amestris over one of your childhood friends was simply not a reasonable excuse.
Not that anything really was. Even if Jannai had had ten times the number of people, it still probably wouldn't mean enough.
"Did he give you a reason for not coming to us for help?"
Heymans did his best to adopt a neutral mask. He wasn't nearly as good at it as she and Mustang, but his long illness had helped him cultivate a more bored expression. "He said he figured it was too late."
That was an understatement. Just watching him when he'd laid out the situation, curled there on his cot in light blue, leaning against his thin pillow and the wall. It was clear he cared a great deal for the woman who literally spit on the ground when she said his name.
He hadn't shared that with doc, but in hindsight he probably should have.
"Once she was put in the situation, getting her out as soon as possible was unattractive next to the possibility of it never happening to begin with," Falman elaborated, and Hawkeye gave him an amused look.
"I do understand the concept of time travel, First Lieutenant."
"Yes ma'am." He inclined his head in apology. "I'm just . . . surprised that anyone with Franklin Sorn's background in mathematics might have thought it was actually possible."
"I'm sure that background is the very reason he did."
Not that any of them knew for sure. Kid was clammed up tighter than Blane. Hadn't really said anything since the jeep, to him or Jean, and apparently Hakuro's men weren't getting much further with him. Mustang wasn't letting them get as rough with the kid as they'd gotten with Blane, of course, but Sorn had been completely withdrawn by the time they'd hit West, and near as he could tell, the kid hadn't actually spoken to anyone since.
"Turns out that was Blane's idea, actually," Breda supplied, gesturing at another fat file on the colonel's desk. "Doc said Blane had been wishing he could undo past mistakes since the town knew him. He figures Sorn originally developed the idea as a way to pay Blane back for his 'kindness'."
For a genius, the kid really was an idiot.
"We'll need more," Vato murmured, flipping to the last page in the report. "He will be tried as an adult due to the certification and military rank."
Breda smiled humorlessly. "If we're going to treat him like an adult, maybe we should question him like one."
Hawkeye didn't seem to see anything funny about it either. "Speaking of which, do you intend to report Havoc's location anytime in the near future?"
Heymans gave her an innocent look, though Falman had finally pried his eyes off the words to observe. "I'm not certain I understand what the colonel is inferring-"
She tapped a thin interdepartmental envelope on her desk. "His report and extended leave papers arrived this morning."
. . . shit. Breda dropped the mask to sigh, rubbing at his cheek again. Not that he wasn't glad the hair was growing back, it just itched like the dickens and he was too damn stressed at the moment to deal with it. "He feels like he let 'em both down." And he wasn't surprised Jean mailed them in instead of handing the packet to her in person. In his messed-up head, she wouldn't have grazed Edward that deep.
In his messed-up head, there was a happier ending than the one they ended up with. Which was a live Edward Elric, a live boss, a live West City . . . a live everybody.
But somehow he agreed with Jean. Good as everything had turned out, it really sucked.
The colonel's faintly irritated expression didn't fade like he'd expected it to. "Then he needs to be notified that isn't the case. I'd rather not have to order him in."
There was something to be said for that. Havoc was currently on leave, he had plenty and obviously she hadn't denied it. But dragging him in would just put him that much more ill at ease over the whole thing. Then again, he was pretty damn ill at ease as it was. "I'll see if I can track him down." He knew - and was pretty sure Hawkeye did too - that Jean had spent his waking moments since returning to Central in his apartment, the shooting range, and the gym. He was specially trained in covert ops, and he could hide from them if he wanted to. This wasn't hiding.
This was trying to make up his mind about something.
"Give him an update on Edward's condition as well."
Breda hesitated. "I heard he wasn't really up and around yet."
"He's stable, and hasn't shown any indication of falling back into a coma," Falman murmured. "He's currently being treated by a Dr. Lise Dalyell. Sheska hasn't found any leads between her and Hakuro or Parliament of note, and Fuery's keeping a close eye on communications going in and out."
Heymans did his very best not to do anything at all. He didn't want to think about why they had to do that kind of background investigation on the doctors that were treating Ed and Al Elric, because then he'd be sitting right back down there, in front of that cell, with one foot propped against the steel bars, while that bastard told him to his face that he'd arranged their meeting to get closer to Mustang and nothing more.
He'd arranged to meet Fuery and Havoc, too, but they'd gotten along so well it hadn't been necessary. Got all the information he ever wanted out of him. Thought he was a great guy, but outside of that need to get Blane info on Mustang he wouldn't have given him another thought.
He knew it wasn't true. Knew it. The doc had spent too much time with him and Fuery when they'd been laid up. He'd just fucking cared too much for any of that bullshit to be true. Sure, he might have looked him up originally for that reason, but shortly they'd become friends.
He just wasn't a good enough friend to get Patterson the hell out of this mess like the doc had gotten him through the poisoning. And Patterson was pushing him away to keep him from sticking his neck out.
He knew it. He fucking knew it and it still pissed him off. Maybe more that he wasn't someone Patterson had thought he could confide in. They'd known each other for years. Could have gotten Lily out of that mess years ago. But who was he kidding, he was just chopped liver next to Mustang and the Elrics. They would have done it for him, done almost anything for him.
But instead they'd just been used for information - hell, even two hours ago he knew he'd been used for information. Patterson had pressed him for details on what was going on, the war, what would happen to Sorn. Got as much data out of him as possible before all but fucking dismissing him. And he knew why, he knew it and it just didn't help.
"Major."
Breda looked up, noticing that the colonel was watching him closely. Having obviously just told or asked him something. Which, for the life of him, he didn't remember hearing.
Hawkeye's look softened slightly, and gave Falman a significant glance. The silver-haired man saluted and left without a verbal dismissal, and Heymans resisted the urge to sink into his chair.
So much for hiding things.
He waited until he heard the door close, but started before she even bothered to ask. "I told him what was going on before I even noticed it," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Dammit, I know he's a good guy."
Hawkeye folded her hands neatly on the desk, silently, and he reflected that she was just as good at getting information out of him as Patterson was. Thank god Hakuro hadn't taken a page from their book. "Did he say anything else?"
Nothing they could use to defend him. "Said he wanted the death penalty if it would spare the kid."
Which it wouldn't. And doc'd probably be executed anyway, it wasn't like he needed to ask for the death penalty after admitting to a plot to assassinate Mustang. He knew damn well that Mustang was in session right now, and he'd fight for both of them, but he also knew as well as Hawkeye that he didn't have much ground to stand on.
"Jean . . ." He hesitated; he wasn't sure it was something he ought to share. "Jean thought about it. I think he might've if I hadn't gotten the jeep when I did." Havoc's face, when he had the kid pinned . . . and the way he was pinned. No doubt it had crossed his mind. Crossed his own mind more than once, waiting for the opportunity to get Sorn and get the hell out of there before their shaky cover was completely blown.
And even though he knew, just like Hawkeye did, that it would be Parliament ordering their executions along with Blane, it wouldn't matter to Mustang. If he couldn't get them out of this, Roy would consider it the same as if he'd killed them himself.
Mad as he was at Patterson, he didn't want to see the guy die for this either.
"It should go without saying," the colonel said carefully, "that you should not feel as if you failed your mission either."
Heymans gave her a wry grin. "I suppose we did get Ed and Sorn out of there. Just wish we'd done it a day sooner is all."
"If you had, West would have fallen," she reminded him. "Edward and Franklin delayed the army for an entire day. If Armstrong hadn't had that time, she wouldn't have been successful."
"I know. I know it all worked out the best way it could." He sighed, playing with the coverlet on the armrest of the chair. "Just wish it felt that way."
She let it go at that, and leaned back in her own chair. "How is Hakuro handling this?"
He shook his head. "Won't touch me with a ten foot pole now that he's read doc's confession. Wouldn't be surprised if he uses it as an excuse to re-investigate the uranium bomb. I've been tailed for the past couple days, but he hasn't actually called me on the carpet yet."
No, his in with Hakuro was well and truly gone, and the fact that he was linked to Patterson as an informant could be a serious problem. If the general wanted to spin it like he'd actually known and purposefully given the doc information that could have led to an assassination attempt, he'd be on the block with the rest of them. Probably not to the same degree, since it would be almost impossible to prove and Patterson sure as hell would never say it, but it would cause trouble for them nonetheless.
"You know, we've all always served two masters." He dropped the armrest cover and stood. "Hurts just as much to disappoint you as it does Mustang."
- x -
He couldn't get out of the way.
Edward Elric tried to swallow back panic and bile, fighting with everything he had to just turn his head. He was buried in it past his ears, it had seeped around his neck and clung there like a damp knotted sweater. There seemed to be a current, or perhaps it was being displaced by the tanks, but it had an oddly sinuous movement to it that reminded him too much of the arms. Like the Gate was the source of it, and they would slowly drag him down, further and further, until it was in his eyes, in his mouth, until he melted and became just more ingredients in the human stew.
He released a shaky breath, trying to curl his hand into a fist. The fluid, sticky suspension of mud, clay, spent fuel and human gristle shot between his fingers like soap, but still, he had no strength.
His body was too weak to get up. The surface tension was too strong, too sticky.
He was trapped. And while it was creeping deep into his ear canal, occasionally it brought with it the rumble of the armors as they went by, oblivious to the fact that he was fallen but still alive. There would be silence, and then the cracking rumble of straining metal and slick treads that would grind over his aching body and crush him, tearing flesh from bone and driving him deep into the sea of death until it was in his lungs, until he drowned.
He couldn't breathe.
Edward tried to call out, knowing he was as likely to be found by foe as friend, but his throat couldn't seem to do more than croak. It stung as if he'd fallen asleep drunk and the liquor had been allowed to burn its slow way down, and despite all his effort he heard only unarticulated grunts. Terror gripped him as the vile potion swelled, slicking its way up across his chest with a purposeful malevolence, and he felt it finally seep far enough into the port of his leg to encounter the nerves.
It was far too muted but still a terrible sting, and he jerked in the blood concrete, unsurprised to find that the effort brought only pain from his battered body and eased him deeper into the congealing muck. It had clotted to his hair, he could feel it tugging as rivulets of the stuff went by, as a tank thundered past impossibly closely. He managed only another moan, trying with everything he had to move, to raise his hand. The automail was gone, but he could still crawl, would still crawl.
Off the field. He needed off the field, he was late and he'd made a promise and he had to go.
This wasn't supposed to happen. The how swirled around his brain in confusion, bits of memories and the certainty of death when he didn't recall the battle at all. His leg began to burn as all his fruitless movement agitated the deadly brew, and the first fingers of it finally brushed along his jaw. Where was the train? If he could just get to the train, everything would be fine, but he'd lost his sense of direction, and another tank shuddered by nearly on top of him. He flinched hard-
And opened his eyes with a strangled cry.
The field was gone, though the stench of it was still heavy in his nostrils, and he saw only a dully reflective white. Something was moving around his head, and he froze, afraid of retaliation. His breaths were coming in short, painful gasps, and there was a maddening tickle on his jaw.
"You're safe. You're safe."
It had been there all along, under the roar of things, but he hadn't wanted to hear the words. He couldn't remember why, though, already the nightmare was just wisps he couldn't waft together into a whole. It was a voice that send a chill down his spine just the same, and he painfully turned his head towards it.
Al.
Al was watching him, his face a mask of exhaustion, and it was his hand on his hair. Stroking it. "You're safe," he repeated, and then there was a terrific crash.
He jumped again despite himself, and this time the moan was far easier, and far more well-deserved. Every muscle creaked with disuse and atrophy, and it took him several breaths to realize that the explosion had been thunder.
But he wasn't out in the field. He was in a room, a lit room that flickered a little with lightning and the weather. The soft murmur of Alphonse hadn't diminished, it was more of a mantra, really. Like he'd been saying it for so long the words had ceased to have any meaning for him, and he was repeating the sounds on muscle memory alone. It was the way he said them, chant-like, that was assuaging.
Edward swallowed back his next gasp, blinking and unhappy at finding dampness. His entire body felt damp, slick with old sweat and oil and thoroughly disgusting. It also ached in ways he'd never felt before, and when he curled his legs experimentally he found the sheets covering him to be excruciatingly rough.
"You're safe," Al soothed, and stroked his hair.
Al didn't realize he was awake.
The thought startled him, and he wondered if he really was. Al . . . no, not Al, someone else, he thought he recalled talking to someone else, and a train, and then . . . then the field, he'd been dropped from the stretcher and there was blood, the bodies had been crushed into mud and he'd been suffocating in it-
Ed took a slightly deeper breath, swallowing again, and shook his head slightly to clear it. Abruptly Al's hand fell still, which felt extremely weird against his scalp, and he wondered how long Al had been sitting there playing with his hair.
Listening to his nightmare. Dammit.
"Nii-san?"
Another crash of thunder, but this time he didn't jump, and he craned his head up to look towards his brother again. He tried for a smile, but quite suddenly there was another emergent need. "Bucket," he croaked, and it didn't take his startled brother long to decipher. Al shot off the bed, and only then did he realize that he'd been laying against him, because now he was flatter on his back than before, and that did not help.
But then there were arms from the opposite side of the bed, steel ones that propped him right back up, and a trash can materialized in front of him, that he wrapped his arms around tightly, just to make sure it couldn't go anywhere. He swallowed again, hoping to chase the feeling away, but that just made everything worse, and he ignored the slow tilt of the room in lieu of relaxing his upper body.
The dry heaves were relatively unproductive, nor did they make him feel better in the slightest, and he didn't realize that he was hugging the trash can with his forehead resting on the far lip until someone tried to take it away. He clung to it stubbornly, hearing voices but not registering what they were saying.
Do not. Take. The bucket.
"Mmnot done," he managed with his next exhale, and before he could even take another breath he found out how right he was.
He held fast to the trash can until he felt better, though how long that took was anyone's guess and now the can smelled sour and he was pretty sure whatever had been bothering him was no longer a problem. He surrendered it, finally, blinking blurry eyes and laying back down. There were bars where there shouldn't have been any, and they didn't stay still, so he shrugged them off and curled up on his side. It was agonizing to move, but somehow he felt almost relieved when he managed it, and it was a long time before he realized the thunder was gone.
More importantly, there was something cold in his mouth.
Ed moved his tongue, hating the thick and furry feeling of it, and then there was something else cold, cold and welcome against his lips. He opened his eyes, more because he wasn't shivering and couldn't figure out how he could be eating snow, and found himself staring at a very familiar face.
"You gonna stay awake this time?" she teased him, sliding the chip of ice between his lips, and he heard the shifting of fabric over his shoulder.
"Hmm?" It was, without a doubt, very sleepy Al.
Winry gave him a considering sort of look, then glanced away - probably at Al. "I've got open eyes."
Edward blinked, sucking on the piece of ice, and shortly there was a scruffy and sleep-crusted little brother beside Winry. Both actually moved away, though, rather than closer, and he had only had time to realize it before someone else came into view. A white coat, white teeth in a wide smile.
"Good afternoon. I'm Doctor Dalyell, I'll be taking care of you. Can you tell me your name?"
He stared at her in blank confusion, then past her at the more familiar, hopeful-looking faces. Where the hell was Patterson? Unless he wasn't in Central . . . Ed tried to get a better look at the room, but they were all too close, and Dr. Dalyell was only leaning in more. Drawing back hurt just too damn much, and he had no choice but to bear it when she reached out and pried one of his eyes more fully open.
"Sir?"
He squeezed his eyes shut defensively as he saw the dreaded penlight, but couldn't summon the energy or will to try to grab her hand. "Where am I?"
She rested her fingers on his face, clearly patient enough to wait for him to adjust. "You're in Central City. Do you remember being here before, Mr . . . ?"
"It's okay," Al murmured, sounding as if he thought he was going to get admonished for speaking. "You can tell her."
He swallowed again, wishing for another chip of ice. "Edward Elric," he finally said. "I've been here more times than I care to count." Oddly, he had to stop to take a breath, but his throat felt better. "Where's Patterson?"
"Very good," she praised him. "Dr. Patterson is unavailable, so I'm going to be administering your treatments. Can you open your eyes for me?"
"Not if you're gonna shine a light at me, no." There was a snort, as if someone was stifling a sneeze or laugh, and then the unmistakable sound of Winry hitting someone.
"I need to check on your progress, Mr. Elric." Obviously she'd met recalcitrant patients before. Maybe if she'd stop shining a damn light in people's eyes they'd be more willing to look at her. She wasn't ugly by any stretch, in her late thirties, though he couldn't recall her eye or hair color from the single glance he'd taken. She had a very matronly tone about her, which was soothing and alarming all at the same time.
"Later," he mumbled, unnerved by how much effort speaking was.
"Now," she contradicted gently, and despite his best efforts pried one of his eyes open.
She did indeed shine a light in his eye, and it was as blinding and painful as he'd thought. He tried to pull away, knowing it was only going to hurt but truly surprised at just how much, and then she very firmly caught the crown of his head with her other hand. It was like a mountain; she pinned him with ease and there was nothing he could do about it. She was also able to pry eyes open and shine lights into them with the same hand, much to his unhappiness.
"Ow," he protested, and the light and objectionable prying was withdrawn.
"Your pupils are still quite dilated, Mr. Elric," she informed him conversationally, and he heard the click of a pen. "Is there pain?"
Is there pain. "Now," he grumbled, and she cleared her throat.
Ed cracked his eyes open and glared at her, and was stunned to see her glaring right back.
"Your chart says that you've had quite a time recently," she began calmly, though her expression was dangerous. "You were knocked unconscious by an underground explosion, suffering a mild concussion and first and second degree burns to most of your body." She turned two pages, and the writing on both the front and back of the sheets indicated Patterson had had quite a lot to say on the matter.
"Two days later you fell approximately forty feet, aggravating the concussion in severity from mild to aggressively moderate and suffering contusions, bruising, and local inflammation." Several more pages turned. "It was also the opinion of your physician you were not getting adequate rest during this period. Shortly thereafter you continued your policy of not resting, and were dispatched on a classified mission that returns you to me in your current state." She flipped another page, and Ed was surprised to see what looked like the entire second half of the chart still unread.
"Chemical burns to bottom extremities, electrical burns to all extremities, a severely aggravated concussion, hairline skull fractures, a laceration of the scalp requiring seventeen stitches, dehydration, exhaustion, additional first degree burns to the face and hands, and more pulmonary problems than I care to go over in this summary." She closed the chart with a heavy slap. "In short, third time was the charm. You've heard it before, clearly, but you're so lucky to be alive I have my doubts that you actually are."
He blinked at her, completely taken aback, and she tapped him on the face with the chart. " Your boss is excessively protective. However, to treat all your symptoms I need more information, classified or not. Did you perform significant alchemy between falling a couple stories and showing up in West with a gunshot wound to the head?"
Edward hesitated, mouth agape, before looking towards his brother. "Help," he managed.
Alphonse looked quite a bit more awake than he had when he'd first circled over to Winry, and he had a hospital blanket pulled about him. He was shirtless, though the sling was present, and his hair was a mess. While he looked enormously relieved and pleased, he did not appear about to leap in front of the woman and save him from the interrogation. "You did, didn't you."
Yeah. That. Edward closed his eyes, hoping to drift off and get out of the question, but he was tapped again quite firmly with the folder. "Nice try. The more information you give me, the better meds I give you."
Now there was some bargaining if he'd ever heard it. "Yes," he grumbled. "I transmuted an acre into a fort." Again, he found himself short of breath, and he consciously increased the volume of air he was breathing. "An' cannons. Oh, they were great, Al. Wish I coulda used the one I made for the bastard."
He opened his eyes again to see that Al didn't think that was great, not great at all, and it occurred to him belatedly why his brother wore that expression.
"Pulled the muscle," he offered, then he realized that wouldn't make any sense. "The amplifier. Think of alchemy like a muscle. Amplifier caused the inner Gate to stretch too far. Pain was just stiffness. I'm fine. All of us are probably fine, just need to stretch it out."
"Stretch it out," Al repeated weakly.
"Does that make sense to you?" If Winry was whispering, she was doing a shitty job.
"Maybe," his brother replied after a moment, but it sounded plaintive. "Ed-"
"I only ask because you've sustained significant damage to your heart," Dr. Dalyell interrupted, somewhat more audibly sternly. "As such, despite the poor condition of your muscular system, you are confined to bed for another four days and to a wheelchair, no more than three hours a day, for a week following."
Right. Like that'd happen.
"If necessary, Brigadier General Alex Armstrong, who is a fellow certified alchemist, will be brought in to enforce these rules." The chart was apparently reopened, and a note made. "Until then, you will be restricted to extremely light water-based therapy."
Great. Even if it was only armor, he'd still sink like a stone-
His eyes shot open, then, as the true meaning of the words came through. West. He'd arrived in West with a gunshot wound to the head.
And not wearing the armor. It was probably still with the Cretian army. Luis probably kept it as a souvenir.
He tilted his chin down, trying to see his right arm, which he was lying on, and was unsurprised to see the now-familiar scar shining up at him from his shoulder.
"All staff on this wing has signed a confidentiality agreement concerning the lack of automail," she said in a slightly more reassuring voice. "Your automail mechanic is here partly as a friend and partly as your cover. The armor is locked in the cabinet over there," and she indicated some spot behind him that wasn't worth the bother of looking at, "but you will not be using it for two weeks at least."
Probably weight. She didn't explain, and he was too tired to ask.
The hell he was going to be without it for two weeks. He'd be seen. Hakuro would be in here literally as soon as Mustang looked the other way -
His eyes widened again. Shit. Sorn.
He was supposed to make Sorn disappear. If he got shot, then where the hell was the kid? For some reason, he thought Franklin was still alive, but it could have just been a dream. He could have still been a prisoner - no, he could clap to transmute-
Shit! And he couldn't very well tell Al Franklin had performed a successful human transmutation with this woman in the room.
Dalyell misinterpreted his expression. "You still have use of all your limbs, though it's too early to know what nerve damage is permanent. But I can say for certain that you had a medically emergent cardiac strain and hours of arrhythmia, I can only assume during the trip to West City. If not for the use of healing alchemy, you would be on a respirator by now with a lung sac full of fluid." Her eyes were an odd combination of blue and possibly green, and they were uncompromising.
"Trust me when I tell you that healing alchemy cannot give you a new heart, Mr. Elric. Give your body time to rest. That means no strains, no excitement, no walking, no additional weight on your chest or system."
For right now, he had no desire to walk, but he did recognize the pain in his body as being cramps. Of course, the fucking tub. The electricity had tensed muscles he didn't even know he had. He hadn't felt this bad even when Izumi had beaten the crap out of them as kids, before he got into shape.
Cardiac damage also explained the nausea and vomiting. So this Dalyell wasn't an idiot. He knew when he'd pushed Luis that he'd been asking for it, literally, but he really didn't know what happened after-
After he'd taken what he'd thought was a one-way ticket out of that situation. Obviously West had held, or he would never have made it from there to Central, so Sorn couldn't have given them much, but surely if the kid had transmuted the damn Stone someone would have said something by now. Hakuro wouldn't have tolerated letting him wake up in a hospital with Al and Win.
"The war?"
"You don't need to worry about the war," she said crisply. "You're safe here, Mr. Elric. As for you, lieutenant colonel, I'll assign you to a separate room if I don't see your ass in that bed a full sixty percent of the time I visit. And I will visit often." Ed opened his eyes to see that Al wasn't even looking at her. Poor deluded woman. She'd figure it out soon enough.
. . . wait, what?
"Ms. Rockbell, do see if you can keep them in line. Your grandmother is doing a fantastic job of running Ackernath off. I expect to see the same tenacity out of you."
Winry gave the doctor a smile that seemed sincere enough, and then Dalyell turned back on him. "We'll begin your physical therapy tomorrow morning. Until then, I don't want to see you unless you're sleeping or eating."
Good. So she wouldn't bother him if he was playing ping-pong. A thousand questions played on his tongue, and he tried to mentally shove her out the door.
"If you have any questions, have the nurses summon me. Since you've remained conscious this long, I'm going to assume you're not going to slip back into a coma. I'll try to find something to manage your pain that won't upset your stomach."
Which was just damn silly, his chart was chock full of wonderful past prescriptions. Possibly illegal or experimental, but wonderful just the same. "Patterson's stuff is pretty good."
"I'll see what I can find," she repeated, and oddly, gave the other two occupants in the room a hard look. "In bed," she added, and he clearly heard his brother grumble under his breath. Then he closed his eyes, listening for the click of the door to indicate when she'd truly gone, and he could start asking questions.
Exhaustion took him far faster than he thought possible, and the next time he opened his eyes it was dark.
- x -
Author's Notes: For once, I don't have the urge to hide from you folks. ; ) Not much going on here but cleanup, but boy is there a lot of cleanup. Patterson, Sorn, and Blane are all looking at a firing squad, Pinako's right where we left her, Hakuro is up to no good whatsoever . . . hmm. Sounds like my usual.
Standard typo disclaimer applies. I have counted, so now I'm going to play the 'Can Mitai accurately guess how many chapters this one-shot will actually be?' game. I'm wagering . . . 36 chapters in total, not counting any additional notes I may post. (Watch it be forty. ; ) I'm tempted to start a wagering game with a prize for the winner, but I'm afraid it would be too hard to call, since then I might be trying for a number no one had guessed. ; )
