The house was empty, but felt desolate. If Roy stopped to contemplate it too long, he would almost say that it had a hollowed-out feeling, like the bottom of a well, or the parlor of a funeral home.

So Roy didn't stop to contemplate it.

Still, it was where Roy had spent most of his time, with everyone down the road at the Rockbell's. As much as he wanted to be with Edward, Winry, and Alphonse, with Riza and his team, this was a required sacrifice. The silence, the stillness, was necessary for what he was preparing to do, both to ready his plans and himself.

Roy hadn't slept for two days, driven by his research and his preparation, but when he heard the news that Ed had somehow, impossibly, roused from his coma sometime early that morning, he had rushed to see for himself. Upon his arrival, he found Ed once more asleep, but not unconscious, only exhausted from blood loss and trauma.

Roy's relief had been enough to allow him a nap on the Elric's sofa, but he'd awoken with a headache and a quiet foreboding gnawing at his stomach, driving him back to Ed's loft and the planning and research that had consumed him the past weeks as he waited for Marcoh's arrival.

The knock on the door pulled Roy from his studies.

He shut Ed's journal and slid it into the older Elric's desk, hiding it carefully under the wadded up balls of paper before grabbing his own journal and climbing as quickly as was safe down from Ed's loft. There was another knock before Roy managed to make it to the door.

It was Marcoh and it was about time.

The older man was dressed in an unassuming white shirt under a brown jacket with matching slacks, a wide brimmed hat shielding the delicate skin of his scarred face from the afternoon sun. He held a small suitcase in one large hand and a medical bag in the other. "Brigadier General Mustang," he greeted in his harsh, graveled voice.

"Doctor," Roy said, opening the door wider to allow him in.

"I spoke to Riza," Marcoh said after entering, setting his bags down in the entryway and removing his hat, allowing for a full view of his disfigured face. The man's scars had always made Roy a bit uncomfortable, the sagging, waxy flesh reminding him too much of the wounds he'd inflicted in Ishval. "Did she give you my response?"

Roy forcibly pushed the intrusive memories away. He had a job to do. "She did," he said, gesturing for the older man to sit on one of the couches. Marcoh did, and Roy stepped into the kitchen to grab a pair of glasses, filling them in the sink and returning to the living room. He handed one to the doctor, sipping from his own glass as he sat in the Ed's armchair.

"I'm not sure why I'm here, then," Marcoh said after a silence, studying Roy with his dark eyes. "If Riza told you that there is nothing left of the Stone, I'm afraid I have no miracles to perform."

Roy had been immeasurably disappointed when Riza had told him. He'd been willing to use the Stone on Ed, even without his permission if necessary, but with no Stone his options had been severely limited.

There was only one way Roy could think of to save Ed now, and Ed probably wasn't going to like it much more.

"I need two things from you, Tim," Roy began, placing his glass on the table beside him and grabbing the file he'd left there. "First, I need a second opinion on Ed's diagnosis." He locked eyes with the older man as he handed the file to him, every scrap of data he'd been able to collect on Ed's condition contained within.

Marcoh accepted it, regarding Roy uncertainly. "And second?"

"And second," Roy leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers in front of his chin, "I need your perspective on the restoration of Ishval."

XxXxX

Ed had exactly one more goal to accomplish while he was still breathing; he was going to make it to that stupid Summer Festival with Winry.

In order to do that though, he had to be off the oxygen. The enormous tanks were not the most portable things in the world—especially on dirt roads—and besides that he didn't want to draw more attention to himself than he already would.

Anytime he was left alone, he removed the annoying glass mask from his face. He wasn't sure if it would help strengthen his lungs, but if he didn't move too much, or speak for that matter, he could leave it off for almost ten minutes before his headache reached an unbearable level. When he was feeling stronger, he tossed the mask and let it dangle over the side of his bed, and when he wasn't, he settled for letting it hang off of his chin.

Of course, when anybody caught him like that, he got an earful.

"Why are you like this?" Winry demanded, picking up the affronting object for him to see.

"Guess it . . . fell?" he tried.

"For the fourth time today?"

"Gravity is a pain."

She shook her head. "You are impossible." There wasn't any fire in her retort as she left the mask on the mattress beside him, then moved down. She wrapped her fingers in the extra blankets she'd brought him, pulling back the covers to expose his left leg.

Or rather, what was left of it.

With a thoughtful frown, she went over to the sink and began to wash, scrubbing up to her elbows before donning a clean pair of rubber surgical gloves.

"Again?" Ed asked, trying not to whine and knowing he didn't succeed.

She looked sympathetic as she took her place down by his stump. "I've got to make sure the infection is gone. I'm sorry, I know it hurts."

He sighed, coughed, then tilted his head back in a "let's get it over with" gesture.

Her cool fingers carefully began unwrapping the bandages from the site of his amputation. The painkillers she was keeping him on were decent—his side only throbbed instead of screamed, and his body only ached instead of burned—but they were far from perfect. The open wound stung enough, and when she put pressure on the place of the infection, he gritted his teeth, digging his fingers into the blankets with desperate ferocity and trying hard not to writhe as his newly-exposed nerves were set ablaze.

He didn't want to think about how it would feel without painkillers.

His lungs spasmed from being forced still for so long and he coughed. The usual fiery sensation was pleasantly diminished, but just because he couldn't feel the pain as much didn't mean that damage wasn't being done. He raised the bloodied corner of the sheets in a weary hand to try to staunch the flow, pulling it back slick with fresh blood.

"I'm sorry," she said again, voice tight. "Almost done." There was a cold, uncomfortable sensation as she smeared something on the open wound, and though it still stung, Ed almost passed out in relief when she started wrapping gauze around it. "There," she said, securing the wrap. "I think it's clearing up. The antibiotics seem to be working."

One less thing to kill him, then. Ed didn't say that though. "Thanks, Win," he wheezed.

Why didn't it feel like he could breathe when he was practically panting?

Winry took off the gloves, travelling up to the head of the bed. She ran her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair, brushing his long bangs back from his forehead. He leaned into the touch, her cool hand soothing against his feverish skin. "Think we can get you out of bed for a bit? It's been a few days since you've been up longer than a few minutes."

On the one hand, Ed desperately wanted to be anywhere but in bed. He wanted to go back to his house, sit on his back porch and read, or watch the sun move across the sky. He wanted to play chess with Falman, argue alchemy with Mustang, or reminisce with Al. He wanted to sit with Winry.

On the other hand, getting up it sounded painful.

"Sure," he whispered.

Winry smiled at him, but her eyes were sad. He hated that.

He tried to help her help himself sit up, but it was like a two-year old helping their parent in the kitchen: completely useless. He just didn't have the strength for it anymore. She placed a therapy belt around his waist and used it and a strong hand under his arm to help move him into his wheelchair. She didn't seem strained by the effort, but maybe that was because without the automail limb Ed didn't weigh much anymore.

Despite him contributing nothing, the movement had exhausted him and left him gasping, a wave of dizziness setting the room spinning even as his headache flared with renewed vigor. He felt the beginnings of a cough stir in his lungs, but managed to somehow, miraculously, quell it before it manifested.

While he tried to force his vision to still, Winry moved his IVs to a rolling tree, strapping the large oxygen tank to a platform beneath that Al had transmuted at some point. Without asking permission, she slid the mask over his nose and mouth. He must have given her a dirty look because she shook her head. "Your lips are turning blue, Ed. You need it."

He couldn't deny that breathing in the stuff, as drying as it was, felt good. His lungs didn't feel as tight somehow, and it was like a fog was lifting from his brain, allowing him to think more clearly, and the room even stopped it's furious tilting after a few moments.

But he still hated how it felt more like a muzzle than a life-giving device.

He watched her change the sheets from his bed, putting the bloodied ones off to the side and adding fresh white linens. She was beautiful like this, the way she moved, confident in what she was doing. Here, in one of the Rockbell's two recovery rooms, he was just another patient. She knew what to do with automail patients. He hoped that made it easier on her, somehow.

She turned back around after fluffing the pillows. "Would you like to go to the living room? I think almost everybody is in there, except Al and Roy."

At his arched eyebrow, she continued.

"Al's upstairs in your old room. I told him to get some sleep. I think Roy's at your house. I haven't seen him very much since you got here."

The thought of Mustang alone in their house bothered Ed for some reason. What could he possibly be doing over there by himself? He didn't like the idea of him rifling through his alchemy research.

He brought a quivering hand up to his face, pulling the mask down enough to be heard. It was morning, and mornings were usually good for him. He wanted to capitalize on it as much as possible. "Can we go outside?"

Ed saw her pause, probably trying to come up with a good reason to deny him the trip but coming up short. Finally, she sighed. "Alright. Let's get you bundled up."

About ten minutes later and three blankets heavier, Winry rolled Ed out onto her front deck. At his bidding, she helped him out of the chair and onto the bench in the shade by the door. She sat beside him, and it wasn't completely unintentional that he sagged against her; it was either that or lean the other way, and why would he pass this opportunity up?

The spring day was pleasant again, the grass green and the sky blue. Hugh puffy clouds were gathering in the distance, birds chirped and sang, and though the cool breeze threatened to chill him, the outdoors was far preferable to being stuck inside, and the outdoors with Winry—well, what could be better?

Gently, her hand found his, taking it into her lap. She traced his scarred palm under her calloused fingers. "I found out something interesting today," she began.

By the tone of her voice, Ed knew to be wary. He pulled the mask down to his chin. "Is this a trap?"

Her lip quirked. "Maybe."

He sighed. "Do tell."

"Did you know that Breda is ordained?"

He stiffened, a surprised cough tearing from his lungs. "Winry," he finally managed to croak, wiping blood from his mouth with the edge of a blanket. "We talked about this—"

"I told you I wasn't through," she said, blue eyes shining stubbornly.

Even now? Now that Ed was a husk of himself, just sallow skin stretched over weak bones? He was even worse off than he was when they'd last had this conversation. "What could you possibly see in me that . . . would make you think . . . this was a good idea?" he breathed.

"The only reason I'm not hitting you with my wrench is because I'd have to go get it," she growled.

"Winry," he protested. "Look at me."

"I am. I'm looking at the biggest idiot in Amestris." Were those . . . tears in her eyes?!

"Hey, don't cry!" he hated, hated watching her cry like that.

It wasn't so long ago that he was walking up the very path they sat in front of, Al at his side, returning from a journey that had taken years but had finally brought them home, with Al in his original body. Winry had cried that day too, but for the first time, Ed didn't mind her tears.

Now, though, he minded very much.

"I will cry if I want to!" she snapped, the tears finally spilling over to stream down her face. "I want the truth, Ed. Do you not want to marry me for my sake, or is it for yours?"

"The answer is both," Ed growled, careful to keep his tone low. He didn't want to choke. "I'm not going to be here . . . very long, Winry. Why would you . . . want to marry someone that's about to kick the bucket?"

She kept scowling and Ed was starting to wonder if maybe he should lean on the other side so it might be less tempting for her to hit him. "It's a little late to ask me to stop loving you, Ed."

He wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or fever that had his cheeks flushing. Probably the fever. "I don't want to hurt you . . . more than necessary."

Despite her denial, he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd produced a hidden wrench from under the bench and bludgeoned him with it.

He was very surprised when she leaned over and kissed him.

The gesture stole his breath in a way his illness never could, the taste of her—of citrus and summer—soft and warm under his lips as she moved against him. He pulled back just a bit, self-conscious that he probably tasted like sick and blood, but she followed him, one hand sliding behind his head to bury her fingers in his hair while the other still held his hand. He allowed his own free hand to wrap around her waist, pulling her closer with the little strength he had.

Was he seeing stars because of Winry, or from the lack of oxygen?

Hard to say.

The headache returned, but he didn't really mind all that much. As if sensing this, Winry pulled away, and he ached at the loss of her. Ed opened his eyes, her half-lidded blue ones staring back at him. She didn't say anything and neither did he as he gasped for air, his head pounding and his vision going a bit fuzzy at the edges. She didn't say anything still as she picked up the mask from where it rested on his chest, repositioning it over his mouth. Sweet oxygen started working its magic, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers while he breathed.

"I love you, Ed," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he said, voice muffled, but he knew she understood him.

There was no one in this world he loved like he loved Winry. He wished he could be around to give her the life she deserved, the family she deserved. And maybe she would have it someday.

It just wouldn't be with him.

It surprised him when moisture sprang into his eyes, and he blinked it away hard. He couldn't afford to cry right now. That wasn't fair to Winry.

Winry closed her eyes. "You asked me a long time ago if I'd marry you."

And he regretted doing that to her, of getting her hopes up only to tear them down. He opened his mouth to respond, but then remembered the mask would prevent any intelligible reply. He lifted a shaky hand to pull it off, but she intercepted, twining her fingers through his. "I know, Ed," she said, but he wondered if she really did. "I know you think it's a bad idea.

"But it's my life. You're my best friend, and my idiot fiancé, and I want the chance to call you my husband. If you don't want to marry me for your own sake, then I can live with that." Her voice wavered, but she closed her eyes again. Silvery streams painted the sides of her face, catching in the morning sun. "But if it's for me, Ed, I want this. I want you, even if it's for months, or weeks, or days. I've already given you eighty percent. I want to give you the whole hundred."

Ed's heart clenched in his chest, because he loved her, and he knew she was right. He couldn't deny her what he'd promised.

She knew all the facts now. Al had told her everything. She knew what had happened to him, what he had done, what his prognosis was, and she still wanted this. She was not making an uninformed decision, and he respected her too much to assume she hadn't considered this from every angle.

He passed a thumb over her left hand, catching against the small silver ring.

As much as she wanted this, he wanted it more.

He slipped the ring from her finger. She looked up at him in alarm.

This time, she let him pull the mask down. "Winry," he began, his voice weak, but his conviction strong. "A few months ago, I asked you to marry me. And then I was an idiot for a while. But . . . you know me. You know who I am and what's going on and . . . if you still want me . . ."

His panting increased as his oxygen levels dropped from the effort, but nothing short of an attack was going to stop him now. He coughed into his blanket, wiped away the blood, and continued.

"Winry, I love you. I love you . . . more than anything . . . and I have for a long time. Will you give me . . . another chance to do it right?"

He held the ring in between them, his hand shaking hard, making sunlight glint off of the shiny metal.

"Will you marry me?"

Her lips trembled into a smile. She looked up at him with her glistening eyes, tears dripping down her face, from the tip of her nose, and she was beautiful.

"Yes," she breathed, and kissed him again. She didn't hold on as long this time, and honestly Ed probably would have passed out if she had, be it from oxygen loss or euphoria. He gathered her close, her head pressing into his bony shoulder. He buried his hand in her hair, grasping weakly just to keep it there, and let her cry into his shirt.

And he'd be lying if he said he didn't let a few tears slip too.

Have a touch of fluff to make up for all the trauma xD

I know I've been hinting that I was going to update this on Tumblr for the past, like, three weeks. Well, it finally happened :'D You ever just . . . forget how to write? Like, grammar rules don't make any sense anymore? Can't spell? Can't sentence? T'was I for the past three-ish weeks. I'm still not over it, so if this chapter looks like I lost the ability to language, it was because I did.

Remember the cabbages I was telling you guys about in my garden? The cabbage worms got them, and all I could think of was the cabbage guy from ATLA. Like, those little buggers wiped them out in less than a week. We had a glorious battle, but I must concede defeat. They won.

Why is this important? It's not.

*sails away*

ANYWAYS, i hope you have a fantastic evening! Please drop a review if you have the time, and I'll see you next chapter :)

God Bless,

-RainFlame