And Ed was dead again.
Truth leaned with his chin in his palm and looked positively bored. "What's that expression you mortals are so fond of? 'Third time's the charm'?"
"Something like that," Ed said, irritated by Truth's implications. Like this was something he had much choice over. He didn't quite remember what he'd done that got him back here—the last thing he remembered with any clarity was being back on the rooftop alone, looking for Mustang and the others— but he knew that whatever he had done was out of necessity, and ending up here was what he had intended.
He really was a self-destructive idiot.
"Tell me al-chem-ist, does dying get old?" The immortal being was just as expressionless as ever, but Ed thought he detected a note of genuine curiosity in the multitoned voice.
"To put it mildly," he agreed, crossing his arms. "I'm ready for my body now."
Truth grinned. Ed hated that grin. "Certainly," he said, and in the blink of an eye Ed's body appeared there before him, his mirror image except for the dead-looking eyes, like an animated corpse. It was more than a little disturbing.
It was also still soaking wet, still bleeding.
Still barely alive.
"I wonder if you'll make it to the hospital," Truth mused, like he was wondering about dinner plans and not Ed's life. "That's a nasty wound on your neck."
Ed wanted to scoff, but he really couldn't when his body looked so . . . well, dead.
"Should I be expecting you again any time soon?" Truth asked pleasantly.
Ed gave the immortal being a glare. "Not if I can help it." Thrice in less than a week was more than enough for him.
In . . . less than a week.
"Hey! Just a minute!"
Truth didn't move.
He just grinned.
"Hang on." Ed ran a hand through his disheveled hair, eyes darting from white space to white space as his mind raced. "You said I had seven days to find my killer."
"That is correct, Edward Elric."
"But I did it in just over four."
"And we're all very impressed."
Ed fixed his gaze on Truth once more. "That means I've got three days left."
"Would you like to do it again?" Truth purred.
Not on his life. Or anyone else's. "Where's the Equivalency in that, huh? I want to trade my three days."
Truth leaned forward with the same fervor as a child examining candy at a shop. "And what exactly do you think a day is worth to an immortal being, al-chem-ist? It isn't a lot."
Why was he so eager?
What was Ed missing here?
Ed looked back at his own body. It wouldn't last long, in the shape it was in. Truth was right: how would it even make it to a hospital?
Wouldn't that be hysterical? To get his body back only to die again on the way to the infirmary?
Ed thought hard, mind working a mile a minute to come up with something, anything to get him out of this.
Truth was playing a game. To win, Ed just had to get the right answer.
A memory, one that seemed a lifetime ago, surfaced in his mind.
"To put it simply, the world is not ready to part ways with Edward Elric just yet. There is more yet for you to do, and if you are diligent, you'll have more than one week to accomplish it in."
That was it.
Ed looked up, back at the immortal being, and grinned, the expression wide enough to rival Truth's own. "It's worth a lot weighed against the future, isn't it? You wanted me alive for some reason. Kind of counterproductive to let me die after all this trouble."
"We do not get something from nothing. A toll must be paid to receive reward."
"Use the three days to heal that stupid hole in my neck."
"I am afraid a mere three days is not nearly enough for a task like that, Edward Elric. But throw in your other hand and we have ourselves a deal."
Ed's left hand instinctively pulled in close to his body, clenching into a fist as he suppressed a shudder. "Pass."
Truth's shoulders raised and lowered, like a disappointed sigh. "Then I'm afraid there is nothing else to discuss. Take your body and go, mister al-chem-ist."
Ed looked back at his body, considering. Then back to Truth.
"Is it enough to get me to a hospital?"
Truth went still.
The that grin—that manic, terrifying grin—split his face in two.
"Your mind is as impressive as always. Till next time, Edward Elric!"
XxXxX
Roy waited for what felt an eternity, but Ed never came back.
The military police showed up along with ambulances. Roy knew they were talking to him, asking him questions, maneuvering him onto a stretcher, but their questions didn't make sense. He looked past them, looking for Ed until the ambulance doors slammed shut and he was driven away.
Everything after that was a blur, too. He tried to listen to what the paramedics were telling him, but he couldn't quite make himself listen. Not enough to understand. He felt like their questions were coming from the bottom of a well or the far end of a tunnel, distorted and delayed, and by the time he could make sense of one comment, they were on to the next. He soon gave up entirely and let his mind wonder back to Ed.
Would Ed still be waiting for him when he got back? He really hoped so, because he would be pretty hard to find again if nobody else could see him.
Distant thoughts of the same nature chased themselves through Roy's mind like dead leaves tumbling in the wind, chaotic and disordered until, in the quietness of the dimly lit hospital room, he finally drifted off into a restless sleep.
Until he was startled awake by a thunderous crash.
Roy sat up so fast he ripped out his IV line. He looked over the edge of his bed and saw Ed on the floor.
Everything suddenly snapped into clarity like a cold bucket of water dumped over his head. He knew this hospital. He knew Riza was in the bed next to his. He knew there were two MPs posted outside of his room and that he was under arrest. He knew Havoc was still in surgery, and he knew Hughes and Fuery were down the hall. He knew Alphonse was drifting between rooms like a lost soul.
And he knew that Ed was here in the flesh, sopping wet, hands pressed to his neck as he bled out on the floor.
"Nurse!" Roy bellowed, or maybe he screamed.
He almost fell out of bed, his hip giving out as soon as he put weight on it. He let the pain sink him, hitting his knees as he scrabbled to Ed.
Ed was flailing, golden eyes wide and darting, gasping like a fish out of water and making a terrible whistling sound as he did, red blood bubbling between his fingers and pinkish water over his lips.
"Nurse!" Riza's voice, her unsteady feet staggering past him to the hall.
Roy ripped off the thin hospital shirt, balling it up and peeling Ed's slick hands away to press it against his neck. Ed thrashed under him, eyes wide and panicked, and Roy pushed, fighting to apply pressure when holding him down was like wrestling a wet eel. His grip kept slipping, and he finally pinned him to the ground with a knee, trying to lock Ed's gaze to his own. "Ed, stay with me!"
Ed's eyes landed on him, and Roy had never seen him more terrified, fear carved into every line of his face.
Ice settled in his gut.
"I will not bury you a second time," Roy snarled, pressing. Ed squirmed under him, gasping, gurgling. His eyes traveled the room again, darting, losing focus.
Losing blood.
Could he even breathe?
"Do you hear me?!" Roy snapped. Ed's eyes wavered, then locked with his, wide and panicked. "Stay with me. That's an order!"
Ed held his gaze, even as he made a breathy whimper. Ed's body didn't stop its writhing, clearly in far too much pain to simply stop, but his flesh hand wrapped around Roy's wrist, tight enough to hurt. Roy would have held it if he wasn't so busy trying to keep Ed's blood on the inside of his body.
A swarm of nurses descended on them then, a slight woman pushing him back, taking Roy's place as they hoisted Ed onto a stretcher and carried him off, shouting at one another as they did. Ed held onto Roy until he was pulled away, but he kept his eyes fixed on Roy's, scared and pleading.
Roy tried to follow, but an MP stood in the way, barring the door.
"Please," Roy said, his voice more a plea than a command. "He's a kid."
The man looked sorry but didn't waver. "You're under arrest. You cannot leave this room."
Roy watched them go down the hall, nurses moving out of the way as they carried their fragile load around a corner and out of sight.
"Please," Roy asked again, begged.
"That's the Fullmetal boy, isn't it?"
All Roy could manage was a nod.
"I will find his brother. Someone will stay with him."
If Roy had anything to put up a fight with, he would have spent it there, but Riza put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him from pressing it. They were one bad decision away from being locked up with the key thrown away, and Roy knew it.
So, Roy did what he hated more than anything.
He waited.
XxXxX
Ed woke up and absolutely nothing made sense.
The last thing he remembered was standing before Truth, so when he opened his eyes and saw white ceilings and white walls and white floors, he thought he was still back at the Gate.
It took a long few minutes for the physical world to cut through the mental fog, but when it did, he became very cognizant of the fact that he could not breathe.
Except that his lungs were moving, which again, didn't make any sense.
The ensuing panic that he would have expected to follow such a thought didn't arrive immediately. Instead, he noted it with a numb sort of curiosity, like he might have noted the angle of the sun. It was interesting and nothing more.
His eyes wondered the room, taking in little details; the closed door with shadows passing underneath, the slow beep of a heart monitor and the hiss of machines, the faintly medical, antiseptic taste clinging to his tongue, silvery moonlight pooling on the floor through the window coverings, thick slatted shadows on the cold tile floor and across crisp, white bedsheets, the gleam of soft light on Al's armor.
Oh.
His brother was here.
The sight was more relieving than Ed felt the situation warranted, but Ed couldn't say why. There was a significance here that was evading him, just out of reach of his fuzzy, sluggish mind.
Sluggish. That would be the drugs, right? That and all the white . . . he'd either finally bitten it, or he was in the hospital.
He smiled to himself. Yeah, he felt sluggish, but he also felt nice, the warm glow of it permeating his stomach and limbs, gold and smooth like honey. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this relaxed. He couldn't exactly remember anything else much either, but . . . well, if the medication made him feel this great, then they could keep it coming.
Al's burning gaze was currently fixed on the far wall, probably meditating or something. Ed tried to call out to him, but instead of his throat wrapping around words and phrases, it pressed against something solid.
Ed looked down, only then noticing the . . . thing wrapped around his neck, a thin tube protruding from his throat, connected to a much thicker tube hanging off the side of the bed.
Was that . . . was that in his neck?
A machine hissed.
His lungs moved up and down without his consent.
He panicked.
The burst of adrenaline smashed through the haze of drugs, the world snapping into sharp, terrifying clarity. His body jolted like an inanimate corpse struck by lightning. He raised both hands to claw the tube out and breathe, but something stopped him, staying his hands.
He couldn't breathe.
His panic doubled, tripled. He yanked his arms, metal clattering, and he was suddenly aware of something soft biting into his flesh wrist.
"Brother!"
Al's voice was almost enough to ease the terror.
Almost.
He jerked his hands again, the tube in his throat rubbing, scraping, forcing more air into his lungs, the sensation as lifegiving as it was suffocating. Something mechanical whirled, wheezed, and he felt the warring pressures in his chest, him trying to suck in a breath while something tried to yank it back out.
It's not how you're supposed to breathe, it's not.
He couldn't breathe.
Al was next to him, leather gauntlets wrapping around his own hands, one metal one flesh. "You have to relax, Brother! Don't fight it, please, just calm down!" Al sounded on the verge of hysteria himself, and Ed wasn't sure why. He tried to ask, his body feeling like a live wire, pressure building somewhere ready to burst from his lips, but he couldn't speak; his throat just hissed and rasped around that tube, and Ed wanted it out of him right now.
His chest moved and he would have screamed if he could.
"Brother, you're on a ventilator."
Ed's brain took its dear sweet time processing that.
Ed looked to the side, the boxy machine sitting innocuously at his bedside, whispering quietly as yet another breath puffed into his chest against his will.
Finally, some of the tension bled out of his hands, as panic gave way to understanding, terror easing into a pervasive discomfort, and Al gently pushed his arms back down to rest on the bed. That's when Ed noticed the handcuffs, tanned leather straps encircling his pale wrists. Ed made a valiant effort to tamp down on the anxiety that rose in his chest at the sight, the machine pushing in another breath. He squirmed, like he could get a different angle and get away from it.
Ed searched his fuzzy memory, trying and failing to come up with a logical reason for him to be here. Despite the clarity he had achieved a moment ago, the drugs pumping through the IV in his hand had washed over him once again like a swollen river over a sandy bank, muddying his thoughts behind a haze of silt. The last thing he remembered with any clarity was standing before Truth and the immortal being agreeing to drop him off at the hospital—pretty generous, for Truth.
But that didn't explain why he was tied to the hospital bed and on a ventilator.
He looked at Al, silently begging his little brother for some sort of explanation.
Al could always read him like a book. He rested a worn leather hand on Ed's arm, the gesture meant to soothe. It worked. "Colonel Mustang said you just appeared in their room. You almost gave them a heart attack," he said, a quivering sort of smile in his voice. "You were bleeding everywhere, and there was a hole in your windpipe, water in your lungs . . ." Al trailed off for a second, like he was trying to distance himself from the thought. "You were shot on that bridge . . . do you remember?"
Not really, but he remembered being told about it. He tried to nod, but was suddenly made aware of something wrapped around his neck. A . . . brace?
Wonderful.
He blinked at Al, hoping he would interpret it as a yes.
"The Colonel said that's . . . that's where you were shot. In the neck. I guess you came back with the same injuries you left with."
Ed rolled his eyes to convey sheer irritation.
"Do you remember going into surgery?"
Ed frowned. No.
"The doctor said the bullet hit one of your vertebrae, fragmented, and ricocheted. One piece tore your windpipe, but most of it passed on through. They removed two fragments and patched up your trachea, but they're leaving you on the machine for a couple more days to give you some time to heal."
Al looked down in a way that made Ed think he wasn't really looking at anything.
When he spoke next, his voice was soft, lined with fear. "It missed your carotid artery by two millimeters, Brother," he whispered. "There would have been nothing they could have done for you then. The doctor said you were really lucky."
Ed tried to breathe to say something, his lips moving to comfort his little brother, but it took another half second for his lungs to inflate, and on the exhale he couldn't seem to push enough air to make his vocal cords vibrate.
Frustrated and annoyed, he reached out a restrained hand, his automail just reaching to clank gently against Al's metal wrist. Alphonse looked up, then back down, wrapping his huge leather gauntlet around Ed's hand. "I was so scared," he said, voice thick with tears he couldn't shed. "I was afraid I got you back only to watch you die again. I'm . . . I'm glad you're safe, Brother."
Ed offered him what he hoped was an encouraging smile. Even if he could have spoken, he wasn't sure what words could fix something like this.
Instead, he defaulted to a traditional tactic when dealing with something uncomfortable: he changed the subject.
He lifted his flesh hand and looked from the restraint to Al questioningly.
"The doctor was afraid that you might rip out your trach when you woke up."
Funny. That's exactly what Ed would have done. He feigned innocence anyways, eyebrows tilting in a "who, me?" expression.
Al's tone of voice conveyed an eyeroll more than anything. "You know you would have. Anyway, you'll probably have to sleep with them on, but I guess we can take them off while you're awake. As long as you promise not to do anything stupid."
Ed glared at his little brother.
Al did not seem fazed. "Promise?"
Ed rolled his eyes, but blinked in agreement.
Al started on the cuffs, his large hands seeming to make the task difficult.
Any bit of lightheartedness they'd managed to establish suddenly took an edge, the air shifting almost imperceptibly. Ed could tell by Al's hesitation, like he was trying to figure out exactly what to say. Never a good sign.
"You're probably wondering how everybody else is doing."
Ah. There it was.
Ed felt a little selfish to admit that he hadn't yet. In his defense, he was probably on some pretty great drugs, given that he was not hurting as much as he probably should be.
"Breda and Falman are alright. Our homunculus disappeared before we could do any real damage, but we probably got lucky." Al could wipe the floor with anybody any day. Ed found it hard to believe that they just "got lucky," but didn't comment for multiple reasons. "I've tried to piece together everything, but the whole team is separated and under arrest at the moment, so it's kind of hard to figure out exactly what happened."
Under arrest? Well, he supposed that was the most logical outcome. After all, Mustang was wanted for Ed's murder, but surely now that Ed wasn't quite-so-dead anymore it would exonerate him rather quickly?
But that would also mean they would need a cover story to explain why he suddenly went off the radar for three months.
. . . and how Ed ended up a bloody mess on the floor of Mustang and Hawkeye's hospital room.
But Ed's head was fuzzy with drugs and exhaustion, and cover stories were above his paygrade. Making up ridiculous nonsense to cover up incomprehensible nonsense was more Mustang's speed anyway.
"From what I gather," Al continued, successfully freeing Ed's left hand, "Lust ambushed Havoc first. He . . . she used her claws." He paused in his work, hands hitching a moment. Ed felt dread, both cold and hot, coiling in his gut. Hughes had gone to check on him, right? "Mr. Hughes saved his life. If he hadn't of gotten there when he did . . . It's bad Ed, but I don't know how bad yet."
Cold dread pooled in Ed's limbs, an uninvited sensation against the warm haze of medication. If something happened to Havoc, it would be Ed's fault. Havoc had been there to help him, after all.
"The doctor won't let me in to see him, but it's only been a day. Maybe I can go visit him tomorrow." The hope in the statement was small, like a candle against a moonless night, but Al was good about holding on to it in the face of adversity. He'd practically written the book.
Al finally got the other cuff off. Ed immediately rubbed his flesh wrist with his metal hand. Not like the leather had really chaffed or anything, but more just to keep from reaching up and yanking the tube out of his throat. Al didn't move from the spot, and Ed waited for him to continue.
"The First Lieutenant and Sargent Fuery were next. Lust gave Fuery a concussion and knocked Hawkeye out the window. I'm not sure how she did it, but Hawkeye managed to hold on and climb back inside after Lust left, stabilized Fuery, then came looking for the Colonel.
"You probably know the rest of it. Hughes got stabbed . . . but he was somehow okay." Al turned his gaze on Ed, soulfire eyes burning, but Ed wasn't sure if it was with rage or something else. "That was you, wasn't it Brother?" he asked quietly. "And the way Lust died?"
Ed wasn't sure what kind of answer his little brother was expecting. He offered a half-shrug around the neck brace and a quick lift of the eyebrows in response.
Al stared at him.
"You're an idiot."
Ed blinked.
There was real heat in the comment. Where had that come from?!
Al's large hands grasped the extra folds of hospital sheets at Ed's side, tight enough that the fabric gave a little squeak of protest. "If you didn't have that tube down your throat, I'd punch you in the face right now for being so stupid."
Ed glared and rapped his knuckles against Al's wrist twice to convey his overall displeasure. You weren't supposed to call your older brother stupid. Or an idiot, for that matter.
"You are stupid!" Al snapped, and this time the searing heat gave way to fear and a rawness that hadn't been there before.
Like he would be crying if he could.
And that's all it took for guilt to override any offense Ed might have taken.
Al had been terrified. His little brother had heard about . . . well, the stupidity Ed had committed, then Ed had disappeared for who knew how long before coming back all bloody and half-drowned, and on top of all that, Al then had to sit by his bedside for presumably days, wondering if Ed would ever wake up again.
Maybe . . . maybe Ed really might have been an idiot. An idiot that had been really desperately low on options at the time, but an idiot, nonetheless.
This time, Ed reached out his automail hand, wrapping it around Al's fist. His little brother's grip on the sheets loosened almost imperceptibly, then he released them, reaching both hands to envelope Ed's one, and Ed was pretty sure if it had been his flesh hand it might have cracked under the desperation of Al's grip.
Al made a sound like sobbing and Ed's heart shattered into a million pieces.
He could hear it on the heart monitor.
"I'm so glad you're safe, you big fat idiot," Al hissed, leaning his forehead against Ed's hand, like if he pressed hard enough he would be able to feel it. "You stupid, stupid big brother."
A little heavy on the "stupid," since Ed couldn't even defend himself properly, but he supposed he could let it slide for now.
Until he got this stupid tube out of his throat. Then he might have a few comments to make about stupid little brothers that went out and wondered the stupid woods on their own and didn't take care of themselves for months.
Oh yeah, he would let Al have it.
When both of them were in a better place.
For now, he contented himself to let Al hold on to him while he let his flesh hand rest against Al's arm, just as much a reassurance to him as it was to Al.
Of all the perks of being a ghost, none of them could quite compare to the simple joy of being able to hold his little brother's hand.
I don't think I could nitpick this more than I already have xD Like, wow, I don't even know if I'm satisfied with it, but if I don't stop messing with it I'm going to do something DrAsTiC. Like set something on fire. Or give myself a haircut. I never did get those quarantine bangs . . .
Did you know it's actually possible to talk with a trache? It just requires some training, and Ed's definitely not there. Like, these injuries got out of control in a hurry, lemme tell you. I've googled so much stuff that I'm probably on a couple of watchlists. I'm going to once again reiterate that I don't have a medical degree, but I have google, which is just as good, am I right? xD (I kid, I kid, this thing is probably riddled with medical inaccuracies. We do what we can do :'D ).
Special thanks to mildlynerdy for all the help on this chapter! I appreciate you so much! 3
Anyways, it's almost midnight here on a work night, so I'm going to throw this out there and hopefully I'll like it more in the morning xD That's good policy, right?! And alsoI will be responding to reviews from the last chapter over the next couple of days c: You guys rock my socks (bet no one's told you that since the 90's, am I right? xD).
Idk what these late nights do to me. If you have the time, please drop a review, and I will see you next chapter c:
God Bless,
-RainFlame