Grace
"Dammit Ed, I don't need a nursemaid!" Havoc sat petulantly in his overstuffed armchair (out of which he hardly ever moved anymore). "I may be injured, but I'm not helpless."
He scowled at the grin the younger man was tossing his way. He nearly crossed his arms grouchily across his chest before he realized: Oh. Right. Right arm in a sling and hurting like... well... a bitch.
"Don't move, you lughead! You're going to hurt yourself even more, and then Mustang, he's going to have both my hide and yours for straining yourself!"
Havoc's eyebrow lifted when he caught the curious little hitch in Ed's diatribe. "What brought him up?"
"I... er... oh, hell, I probably should have told you this some time ago. I've been seeing him. Not like that!" he added hastily. "He told me to report in to him on your health. He's not too happy with the state of your affairs, and quite frankly, neither am I."
Havoc let his eyelids droop to half-mast. "M'm. Nice to know that you're pissed at me over something I can't control."
"Dammit, Jean! That's not what I meant! I'm worried about you... we're both worried about you." A pair of warm and cold hands gently cradled his left hand. "We don't want to risk losing you. If you got automail, then... you wouldn't be you anymore. You'd be... almost-but-not-quite you. I don't want to lose you when I've never really had you."
He closed his eyes all the way. "Is that what this is about?"
"No. I don't think so. I think it's about what you need..."
