He was out, down, the word going fuzzy. Brief flares of aching pain crept stealthily through his body. He could almost shut out the pain, but it lay coiled like a serpent around his spine, insistent and unwavering.

He was still on his knees, a condition he found vaguely amusing. He had already tried moving, which had failed miserably. There was a big hole in his side, and he was surprised that he was still conscious.

Well, fuck.

He slumped back, boneless from bloodloss. So much for staying straight... ye gods, sand was irritating.

"Hey."

He cracked open a gummy eyelid, almost painfully slow. A rather disturbed-looking soldier stared down at him. "Major, sir, this one's still alive!"

"Then go get help, man!" a smooth voice snapped, slightly raw from worry and anger. "Don't just let a soldier lie bleeding!" The solder ran off, clearly terrified.

Oh, fuck.

"You stupid ass," the major hissed from on high. "You promised me you'd come back alive!"

"Don't jump to conclusions," he managed to rasp out painfully.

"Have you seen the hole in your side? You can't last long like that."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mustang."

"Jean, you're bleeding out. You won't be able – no, don't talk, you can't waste your energy." Mustang knelt, pressing his gloved hand against the wound to help staunch the massive amounts of blood.

"Stop!" he gasped, nauseated by the pain. "Your gloves... too rough..." He felt like he was going to pass out... but the world remained oddly clear and sharp, even if it was in shades of grey.

Soddit.

"Jean..." Worry etched Mustang's voice, etched his face. "How did this happen? You're a sniper, not general infantry."

"Friendly fire," he managed. "Roy, don't move me... hurts..."

"You want water?" Mustang asked in the subdued voice that men used in the morgue.

"Please."

There was a disconcerting sensation of being fed water, then water being poured over his still-aching side.

Roy hissed for him. "Well, it's not as big as I thought it was, but you still lost a lot of blood, and it's still pretty deep."

"Is anything falling out?"

Mustang stared at him for a minute, mouth agape. "Are... you...?"

"Joking? Yes..." he coughed a bit, somehow contorting around the tear in his side so the sand wouldn't irritate it. He whimpered.

Roy yanked off his gloves, pressing the cool tips to his forehead. "You have a fever, Jean. Jean? Jean!"

Jean Havoc lay slumped on his side, head pillowed in Mustang's lap, hardly breathing, hardly moving.

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looks around- Jeeze, what do I have to do to get some responses around here? Are you all dead? -poutpout-

I know I haven't really been updating, but that doesn't mean you can slack off and leave me hanging... -poutpoutpout-

'sides, I'm running out of ideas, so you have something you want written, just give me a holler. If you've suggested something that I still haven't written, then suggest again. I'm so scatterbrained that if I don't write it within a week of suggestion then I forget. Sorry...