Given
"You don't have to get so tense every time I close my eyes," Jean said tartly, head still where he had let it drop some time ago.
Ed flinched guiltily. "I know that... just that you look so pale and ill, it makes me think that you're... not going to wake up again."
"Ed, that's what happens. It can take months, even years, for an older body to recover from severe trauma."
"You're only thirty-four!"
"And I'm falling apart. There's a damn good reason that the military recruits younger people – they heal faster and better than someone as old as me. Why do you think that Mustang doesn't do field work anymore?"
"That's beside the point," Ed retorted. He slid a pillow between the other man's head and the back of the overstuffed armchair that Jean had collapsed into as soon as the nurse had dragged him back. "Why the hell did they even let you out of the hospital so soon? It's only been a month!"
"Another arson attempt at a southern aid-station. They needed the space too badly to keep an outpatient."
"Your leg got turned into hamburger! They could at least have waited for it to heal a little more!"
"I'm fine, Ed. It wasn't so bad that they had to amputate it. That means that it'll heal, whether I'm in an hospital or not."
"Well, yeah. But that doesn't always mean that it'll knit properly. There's tons of automail users who got their limbs because doctors pulled shit like this."
Jean waved his good hand tiredly. "If that happens, I'll ask Pinako and Winry to help out. I'm sure they wouldn't mind fitting something on me."
"Yeah," Ed said, muffling himself into Jean's shoulder. "But I would."
