"AL! Ed!"

A voice; his mother's came from downstairs. He glanced up from his book to the doorway.

"Dinners ready!"

"Alright!" Alphonse leaped from his place near Ed, nearly tripping over some spare books on the floor in his haste. "Ed, clean up your books," He huffed. "They're on my side of the room, I almost fell."

"It's not my fault you're a klutz," He shrugged. "Do it yourself, you read them too."

"Brother! You always put me on clean up duty. Mom said you have to pitch in too," He crossed his arms, before smirking. "Unless you want me to tell her you're not-"

"Fine! Fine! I'll do it," He rolled his eyes, slamming the novel he had been reading onto the bed sheets, and flinching as the pages crinkled. He grinned back to Al, who stood with triumph. "But only if you beat me to dinner!"

He had gotten the head start, breaking out into a sprint as he flung the door open. The walls shook from the collision, and the small, frantic thuds behind him meant his brother had caught on. He cackled as he raced down the stairs, Alphonse's loud complaints following right after. Adrenaline coursed through him, but not the anxious, stressed kind. In fact, he didn't think he could be upset right now if he tried. He just felt blissfully, ignorantly content.

He reached the doorway. His father was at the table, reading a paper, and the scent of lemon and spices wafted throughout the kitchen. His stomach grumbled, and he was about to jump into his mother's arms to declare victory.

And then he wasn't home anymore.

The first thing Ed processed was a dull ache in his right leg. The second was the wishful sadness the dream brought him. The third was a person, standing right over him.

And the fourth, that was that he was not supposed to be here. He wasn't sure where the hell "here" even was.

"Who the fuck are you?" He braced to sit up, but couldn't lift himself. A searing pain sprouted from his ribs and leg. His eyes darted down to figure out what the issue was, and then he realized that he only had one leg, and the other was covered in enough bandages and gauze that it could be mistaken for a mummies. He was down his right arm, too, and his left was hooked to an IV. A cold dread set in. He couldn't even walk in this state, much less transmute.

"Wouldn't try to move if I were you," The man wrote something on his notepad. His expression was blank, and he was dressed in doctor's robes. "You got shot. Miracle you survived, really, with how much you bled out. Unfortunately, we don't know your blood type, so you're probably going to be weak for awhile until your body replenishes," He paused. "Oh, you've got some bruised ribs too."

Ah, so that's it. The memories came back to him, and the instant where he flashed back to before could only be described as a mega-fucked sundae with im-an-idiot whipped cream and a shit cherry on top. His mind was hazy, but he could tell that wherever he was was, most likely, not friendly. He wasn't in a hospital room. It seemed to be some sort of bedroom. A bookshelf and a desk stood across from him, but other than that, decor was scarce, and there were no windows. The only light was from a fixture above. He realized he was shirtless, and his coat was discarded lazily over a chair near the desk. It was stained with dirt and blood. Ed flinched in remembrance. He had been shot, and if he had to guess, the bruised ribs were from when he'd been kicked.

His eyelids were heavy, and he shivered even under the covers. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, uncomfortable and sticky against the sheets below him. He should have listened to Al when he told him to bundle up for winter, even if he'll never admit it, he does get sick every year- Wait. Al. There was just enough haze and exhaustion to prevent him from rampaging with anger in the moment everything fully shifted into place.

"My brother," He growled at the man, but it came out slurred and uneven. "If you guys did anything to my brother, I'll fucking kill you."

The man stared at him, his lips drawn together, and his eyebrows raised just enough to convey surprise. "In that state?" It wasn't an attack, more a question.

"Yeah, in this state," He tried to push up once more, this time taking into account his missing arm. He managed to raise a few pathetic inches, and his eyes met the mans, his voice speaking before his brain really could."I'll rip your jugular out with nothing but my teeth and fingernails if there is even a scratch on him that wasn't there before."

He drilled his gaze into the doctors, who seemed more amused and annoyed than scared. This only pissed Ed off more.

The man sighed. "Currently, like it or not, your life is in my hands," He paused. "You're only breathing because I treated you. And the only reason I did that is because if you die, I'm the one who has to deal with it," He stared down to Ed and spoke in a tone that said I-could-ask-you-to-lick-my-boots-clean-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-because-I-can-and-will-hurt-you-if-you-step-out-of-line. Ed, being the person he is, took it as a challenge. "I don't wanna be here anymore than you, kid."

Ed's eyes narrowed. "Call me kid and I'll choke you with these bandages."

That actually solicited a laugh, he just threatened the man, and he had the balls to laugh . "You're what, 10? I'm sorry, but your baby face is anything but intimidating."

"I'm thirteen and 3 months!"

"Doesn't change the fact that you're 5'0 max-"

"Who are you calling so short!-"

"And have about 2/3rds the amount of blood you should, not to mention that fever.." The man spoke over him in a mutter, ignoring anything he shouted as he scribbled in his clipboard. "I'm going to need to take your vitals now that you're awake. Try anything, and I'll sedate you on the spot."

Ed narrowed his eyes. Fuck no, he wasn't letting the enemy near him, much less take his vitals. What he needed to do is get the hell out of here, not play doctor-patient while Al was probably either hurt or panicked over him somewhere. "And what if I say no." He growled.

"That wasn't a request, kid. I'm taking your vitals. If you want to do it on a healthy dose of benadryl, that's your prerogative, but I can't promise you'll wake up if I say, overdo it on accident."

Nothing pissed Ed off more than being threatened. He really wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug, indifferent look of the man's face with a nice, dirty punch to the jaw. He prepared himself to do so, before his body kindly reminded him that if he stood up too fast he'd probably pass out. He huffed. If you can't fight, and you can't threaten, it's best to gather Intel. That was one of the few lessons from Mustang that stuck. "I thought you said you had to keep me alive?"

"I do. That's why it'd be such a shame."

"Yeah, but why? I clearly walked into a criminal operation. A normal person would've left me dead for someone else to deal with."

"Well, Clara is anything but a normal woman," He sighed. "I just work for her. If you wanna know what she's up to, ask her yourself. Though I doubt you'll get anything out of it, asking her to answer a question directly is like trying to wring every drop of water from a cloth that never dries."

Ed was about to respond, before the name "Clara" resurfaced in his mind. Clara, Clara… Where had he heard that name before?

"That's the woman from the warehouse, right?" He didn't want to say "the one who kidnapped me", or "the reason I'm currently down two limbs again and can't even talk clearly without putting every ounce of focus I have into it". That would imply she was successful in whatever fucked-up thing she was trying to do here. He wouldn't give her that credit, or satisfaction, in any way, even to himself. He isn't kidnapped. He's getting out of here, no matter what.

"Yeah," The doctor peered up from his papers. "Probably. She did say something about fighting at a really tall warehouse, and regretting the fact that she'd overlooked windows as an escape route, wasn't really listening. Too busy trying to keep you from bleeding all over my car."

He scoured his brain for when he'd heard the name, before he came across what he was looking for. Clara. Clara Greene. The bitch Havoc was talking about earlier today- Wait no, it couldn't have been today. How long had he been here? Whatever, that didn't matter. They said she was attempting a bank robbery, though. Why bother with a robbery if she was just going to kidnap someone instead? Oh. Wait. He couldn't help but to face palm. Fuck, that's why Mustang was acting so weird about him leaving HQ! They lied about the robbery, obviously. Mustang was just trying to bullshit them into staying behind. He knew if he told the truth, Ed would just go after her himself. Some crazy woman was trying to kidnap him and his brother, and his dumbass walked right into it like a bunny to a forest trap. He couldn't even be angry. He was just.. Slightly in shock at it all.

"Open your mouth so I can take your temperature." The man snapped him out of his thoughts, and held a thermometer to his mouth.

"No." Ed said, tilting his head. They wanted to have him so bad? Fine. But he'll make every second absolutely excruciating for everyone involved.

"Open. Your. Mouth." He gritted between clenched teeth.

"Shove it up your ass-" The man grabbed his mouth as he spoke, forcing it open, and shoving the thermometer in. Ed heard an uncomfortable pop, and the man's fingers dug into the sides of his cheeks, right between his top and bottom teeth. Ed tried to thrash his head away, but ended up just biting the flesh that had been pushed in from the man's grip. He tasted metal. The doctor let go, before holding Ed's nose. "Close your mouth and let it sit." He demanded. Ed glared at him, before doing as he said, but with his nose blocked off, he couldn't breathe. He tried to open his mouth again in an effort to draw breath, but the man just pressed his hand back over it. "Keep fighting and I'll do this until you pass out." He hissed.

The next 45 seconds were horrible. Ed tried to suppress the dizzying sensation that was starting to take over. He couldn't tell if it was the fever, the lack of oxygen, or the fear that was making it so hard to feel anything but desperation. He gulped, before weaving his expression into one of pure, unfiltered hatred. He wasn't about to show this person that he was scared, if only a little bit. His instincts were telling him to thrash and fight, but his brain knew that it would just waste energy. And he didn't have energy to spare right now. Right as Ed started to get light headed enough to faint again, the thermometer beeped, and the man's grip loosened.

He gasped as air filled his desperate lungs once more, dulling the throbbing in his head as blood began to pump properly again. "The fuck was that about?!" He wanted to sound threatening, but it was strained, and the grit he wanted to convey was fleeting, at best.

"I warned you." The doctor said, tone completely even, and not a hint of annoyance or remorse. He glanced down before grabbing his clipboard, and jotting down something once again.

Ed glared at him. That's how he wanted to do this, fine. He didn't enjoy getting manhandled or suffocated, but he'll do anything to prove a point. He tried not to think too hard about how both scary and totally fucked this was. A small part of him was terrified. In his fever, it was hard to process much other than fear and anger. He was away from Al, unsure about his brother's safety, and these people could kill him right now and there wouldn't be much he could do to stop it. He needed to be smart, practice self preservation, but this guy seemed like anything he did wouldn't be purposefully lethal, even if it hurt. Ed could do hurt. He really hoped that if he was too much of a pain, they'd get annoyed and let him go, or at the very least he can make their plans harder to carry out. There wasn't much he could do other than be indignant, but that was better than being complaisant. Being a military dog isn't the same as being docile to anyone who asked you to sit, stay, or roll over. (Not that he listens to his CO's half the time anyways.) He wasn't about to do anything to make these people's lives easier.

The next few tests pretty much went the same way. Ed was told to do something, refused to out of spite, and then got forced to anyways. By the end of it, he has bitten the doctor 2x, slapped him once, and received various marks in return himself. Not bad, for being presumably fresh out of a coma, if all the needles in his arm were anything to go by. It was almost fun in a fucked up sort of way. It had been too long since Ed had gotten to thoroughly piss someone off, and he had no plans to stop being insufferable.

The man rubbed his cheek, where swelling had started to bloom. "You're a fighty one. You shouldn't bite the hand that feeds, you know."

"Yeah, well I wouldn't exactly call shooting me in the leg a reason to respect any of you."

"I liked you better when you were in a coma," The doctor grumbled. "Wish we would've fed you enough anesthesia to keep it that way."

Ed perked up, ignoring his annoyance. He needed to know how long he'd been here. "Wait, how long was I out?"

"2 days comatose, one half awake. Though I doubt you'll remember any of it, your fever was pretty high."

3 days in all. He's been missing for 3 days. He may feel like he's been hit 5 times by a 3,000lb pickup truck, but at least he's aware enough to talk, and understand what's happening.

A knock came from the other side of the door. Ed narrowed his eyes, and the doctor moved to open it.

"Hey Martins, Clara said she wants the kid for dinner as soon as- Oh, look! He's awake!" It was Chris, his everlasting, fake smile plastered on his face. Ed thought he was going to be sick. The first thing this guy does, 3 days after putting a bullet in his leg that apparently almost killed him, was smile?

"You!" He shouted, pointing to the man. "You shot me!"

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that," He scratched the back of his neck. "Just following orders. I'm sure you military folk get it," He held a hand out. "No hurt feelings?"

Ed spat on his hand. Chris's smile widened. He pulled away, wiping the palm on his hood. "Alright then. Glad to see you're lively."

"Tell me about it, he's been a menace all morning," The doctor (Martins, apparently) grumbled. Ed grinned at him. Good! He's been doing his job correctly. "He should barely be conscious, but he's somehow mustered up enough energy to bite my arm twice."

"Yeah, well, stop being an asshole and let me go, and you won't get bit."

Chris shook his head. "No can do, sorry," He wasn't sorry. "Although I'd recommend you be careful who you treat poorly, we're only under orders to be nice to an extent."

"Why do you care?"

"Well, you're a kid. I don't like seeing kids get hurt."

"And yet you shot me."

He shrugged. "I said I'm sorry. What's done is done, can't help you past that."

Ed rolled his eyes. He didn't want a fake-apology, he wanted to get the fuck out of here. Chris wasn't actively hostile, and seemed to be more friendly than the doctor, but Ed couldn't tell how much of that was being faked. He couldn't count on anything from these people. He needed to be careful what he told them. They clearly wanted him alive for a reason, so even if they were nice, he couldn't give them anything that could work as leverage. With his automail missing, he needed any upper-hand he could get. A part of him almost wished he had listened to Mustang's lessons about gathering Intel for more than 3 seconds at a time. He was really getting the feeling he could've used them.

God, he was going to punch Mustang so hard for lying about this shit. Yeah, he probably would've still gone after them, but it would've been nice to have a warning. But now he was stuck here, unable to walk, feeling feverish, with two random criminals in the room who are not only annoying assholes, but will probably tie him to this bed for even thinking about escaping.

"Hey, kid-" Chris was waving a hand in front of his face. "You dizzy? You spaced out."

"Fuck off," He said eloquently. "I'm fine. What'd you want?"

"Does your mama know you use that kind of language?" Chris tsked. Ed glared. "Guess not," Chris muttered. "I was trying to tell you that Clara's gonna want you for dinner later, so you're gonna wanna rest up."

Ed raised an eyebrow. "Dinner?"

"Yeah, said she wanted to discuss the terms of you staying here."

He made it sound like Ed was renting an apartment or something. "Why doesn't she just come in here to talk, not like I can go anywhere." He grumbled. He had no intention of staying, but they didn't need to know that.

"Probably doesn't wanna deal with a brat right now," Martins muttered. "I wouldn't want to either."

"You're going to have to get more creative than "brat" if you wanna hurt my feelings, asshole." Ed knew he was twice as capable than both of these people. He didn't exactly appreciate being called a brat like he was just some idiot child, but he's heard way worse than that in the year he'd spent in the military. Not to mention Teacher's creative insults, and while Alphonse acted all sweet and innocent, he was just as snarky as Ed at times, and his words always stung when he wanted them to. They were amateurs compared to some of the shit that'd been thrown his way. One time Winry said he was about as useful as a white crayon. Now that had hurt. White crayons are great for colored paper, thank you very much.

He stifled a yawn, rubbing his eyes with his spare hand, and stretching his left leg in place. Truth, he missed them so much he thought he was going to be extra-sick. He'd give anything for a wrench to the head if it meant he got to talk to Winry, even for a second. He shook his head. Yeah, he was definitely feeling feverish. He always got all... emotional and gross when he was like this. He sighed. The exhaustion was really starting to set in now that he had gotten through the whole panicking over where he was thing. "Whatever," He sighed, trying to suppress the ache in his chest. "Get out so I can sleep."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you have much say over what we do."

"Fine, creep. Stay here and watch. I'm going to bed. Wake me up when the bitch wants to have a chat." He laid down, adjusting his limbs to the best of his ability, and trying to ignore the dull sting of needles in his arm. Was it the smartest idea to sleep right in front of the enemy? Probably not, but apparently he'd been doing it for the past 3 days anyways. His body and brain were so exhausted that they didn't provide much protest. He closed his eyes, flipped the pair off when they complained about him, and found unconsciousness taking him faster than he honestly would've liked.

He was going to escape. Dying wasn't an option, and neither was staying here. He wasn't about to hesitate, and he wasn't about to lose. For now, all he could do was sleep, and hope that helped him regain some stamina.