It took two weeks for Mustang to show up.

And two weeks later, Ed was surprised at how much being alive still hurt.

His ports ached something fierce, his stomach felt like it was in knots, his lungs burned, and every single muscle in his body felt like someone had wrung it out like an old washcloth, then beat it against a fencepost for good measure.

And then there was the tube speared through his throat.

Al tried to comfort him, reminding him that his body had been through a lot. After all, he'd had a hole in his trachea, bullet fragments in his neck, water in his lungs, and he'd been in shock. A little recovery time was to be expected.

Other than all that, he was doing pretty good.

He'd managed to walk almost two laps around the hospital floor yesterday, and even with the oxygen it had felt like a herculean effort and afterward he'd napped for three hours straight. It was definitely progress though; just last week his walk to the door and back had wiped him out completely.

He was improving. He'd finally gotten rid of the stupid neck brace during waking hours, and he'd gone from the machine breathing for him to breathing on his own—still through the trach, and with a trach mask feeding him a steady flow of oxygen—but even with a hole in his neck he would take it over that machine any day. It still felt wrong, but it didn't feel like he was suffocating anymore. Even now he only had to have the mask during the night, and he was expecting the daytime nurse to drop in and remove it at any minute. They were supposed to let him try breathing without it for twelve hours today, then after that a full day.

After that, they would plug the trach and see if his nose still knew what to do.

Familiar clanking gave away Alphonse's approach. Ed put a finger in his book to mark the paragraph he'd left off on and looked up from his nest of scattered notes, crumpled papers and pillows, grinning at his little brother as he stepped into the room with a tray.

It was really nice to be seen.

"Hey, Brother!" Al greeted like he hadn't left only five minutes ago. Al tended to get a little clingy when Ed was in the hospital. Granted it was usually because Ed had almost scared the soul out of his armor.

He shut the door and stepped closer to the bed, placing the breakfast tray on the nightstand.

Ed turned an accusing glare at his brother.

"Look, there aren't that many options," Al said defensively picking up the two glasses. "It's either broth or milk."

]Why did he even bother?

Ed took the broth from his brother and set it on the nightstand beside him, then made a shooing gesture with his automail hand.

Ed knew Al would be rolling his eyes if he could. Instead, he tilted his helmet back, the first light of dawn glinting through the window and off his metal jaw. "Brother, the more you eat the faster you heal. And milk is good for healing."

Ed was currently on a steady diet of whatever mush they pushed through the feeding tube in his nose and a sad ensemble of liquids masquerading as solids. The water and broths he got had enough thickener in them to pass for jelly—he even had to eat them with a spoon.

Ed decided that he'd rather choke than eat this crap for much longer. As soon as he was out of here, he was eating three steaks and all the sides and desserts he could cram down his throat.

"I stopped by the nurses' station on my way back. Miss Laura will be here to suction your trach after she finishes with Mr. Wilkins."

Ed suppressed a shudder.

"It's not that bad, Brother. Miss Laura is really good."

She was definitely better than Juliette. That woman wielded a suctioning tube like a rapier.

Ed almost didn't see him around Al's girth—there was no knock, not immediate greeting—but when Al shuffled aside, there Mustang was.

Ed couldn't tell much improvement between now and when they were on the run. Mustang still looked just too pale and too thin and almost sickly, his frame slumped in a wheelchair, his body canting to the side like his hip was really bothering him. His chin was shadowed with overgrown stubble and his eyes were dark, almost hollowed out, giving him the appearance of a skull without the benefit of flesh.

But when Mustang met Ed's eyes, Ed thought he saw a half dozen years bleed off of him.

The orderly behind the colonel looked between him and Al uncertainty, like he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to be doing. The whole thing was odd because Mustang was supposed to be under arrest, so Ed wasn't sure what he was doing out of his room in the first place.

"Colonel!" Al greeted, voice pitched higher in both surprise and joy. He certainly forgave fast, now that Ed was back. "They released you?"

"Just this morning," Mustang said, a small smile playing on his lips. His dark eyes landed on Ed, something both soft and calculating glinting just beneath the surface. Ed fidgeted under his stare, wishing all the world he could tell him off for it.

Then the look evaporated and Ed knew they were back on familiar ground when the smile became a smirk. "Hey, shrimp."

Ed scowled, lips twisting into a silent snarl.

He absolutely loathed this man.

Mustang's responding grin looked a little more natural this time. It had been a while since Ed had seen him wear the expression. It fit like a favorite shirt, and some tension between Ed's shoulders eased at the sight. Mustang tilted his head to look at the man behind him. "You're dismissed," he told the orderly. "I'm sure Alphonse can wheel me back when we're finished."

Al nodded eagerly. "Of course."

The orderly gave a quiet "yes, sir," before leaving, closing the door softly behind him, and then they were alone, left in some kind of awkward staring contest that didn't seem to have any rules.

Ed's gaze drifted from Mustang to Al and back again. Why wasn't anybody saying anything?

If Ed could, he certainly would have filled the silence.

Al had done his best to keep everybody updated on everybody else's status. Apparently, all had been released from both the hospital and arrest, except for Havoc and Mustang. Havoc wasn't under suspicion any longer, but he had no feeling below the waist. Al had gone to see him multiple times and said he was in good spirits, but Ed found that hard to believe. He knew what it felt like to lose function of your limbs, but he'd always had automail to fall back on. Automail required active nerve endings to hook up to though, and there wasn't anything to be done for nerves that didn't signal.

Ed felt sick if he thought about it for too long.

As for Mustang, the man had already had two surgeries to try to repair the damage in his hip. The surgeon was hoping that the man might even walk away from it without much of a limp, given time and therapy.

But Ed was real curious about how he'd weaseled his way out of prison time. He knew the basics of the story Mustang had asked Alphonse to spread: they were attacked, both he and Ed were injured, they laid low and got lost in the forest, then contacted their colleagues to help them reach Central, where they were attacked yet again and barely lived to tell the tale.

There were at least a couple of points that were true. But when it came to the military, unless public opinion or treason was a factor, they didn't typically accuse one of their own for very long. And even they had to admit it didn't make much sense for Roy and the others to desert, only to come crawling back to Central, especially when it was very clear that Mustang hadn't murdered Ed.

Even with that sorted, there still remained one very large, very complicated hole to fill:

How did Ed appear in the Colonel's hospital room without witnesses in the state he'd been in?

But it seemed the conniving officer had an answer for that one, too: he and the Lieutenant were asleep when it happened. He had absolutely no idea.

Ed thought that sounded a little ridiculous himself.

But the military police didn't have any plausible theories either. It wasn't like Mustang could have smuggled Ed in under his coat, and Ed didn't really remember waking up gasping and bleeding all over Mustang's hospital room, so he couldn't really hurt or help the story.

So in lieu of a more conceivable alternative, it seemed the military police had no choice but to buy it.

The world really was run by morons.

"He went without the oxygen mask the past two days," Al informed, armor clanking loudly in the awkward half-quietness of a hospital in the early morning, the familiar sound drawing Ed from his musings more than anything. "The nurse will be by soon to remove it again. They're going to try to deflate the cuff in his throat and cap the tube soon. The speech therapist said he should be able to talk then, with some training."

Mustang gave Ed one of those smug grins that was all sharp in the lips and soft in the eyes. "And here I was enjoying the peace and quiet."

Ed opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he could do with his peace and quiet before he remembered himself, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering from his pillows. If looks could melt, Mustang would have been a puddle on the floor under the searing glare Ed sent his way.

It was ironic that Ed had spent those four days ranting and railing at Mustang just to get him to look at him, and now that he was finally back in the land of the living, the colonel was staring straight at him and Ed couldn't say a word.

Irony sucked.

Mustang was still looking, that softness still there, still staring at him like he couldn't quite believe Ed was alive and in one piece. It was unsettling. "When do they think the tube can be removed?"

Alphonse stepped closer, resituating the book that was starting to slide off to the side. Ed brushed him away irritably. He could reorder his own workspace.

Al was unfazed. "The doctor said as early as next week, as long as there are no complications. And if Brother does what he's told."

Wasn't it just like Al to pick on him in front of Mustang when he couldn't defend himself? Ed put his hands together, fingers touching to form a ring, then hovered them over his head in an approximation of a halo.

Mustang made a 'tcht' sound at his teeth. "No one buys that, Fullmetal."

"Nope," Al agreed.

Ed rolled his eyes and made a show of going back to his book.

"I think he misses talking more than real food, but it's hard to tell."

Ed gave his little brother a pleading look. Of all the times and ways for Al to pick on him. Ed should have raised him better.

Mustang just chuckled, rolling his chair a bit closer to Ed's bed. Ed's body shifted backwards just a bit of its own volition. "Would you mind waiting in my room for the First Lieutenant to show?" Mustang said to Alphonse. "She or Hughes should be here shortly, and I'd like a word with Fullmetal."

Ed blinked, eyes darting between Mustang and Al. He smelled an awkward and entirely one-sided conversation heading his way if Al left, and he wasn't sure he was in the mood for it.

But Al either didn't notice or didn't care about Ed's discomfort. "Sure. Maybe you can get Brother to drink his milk."

Ed glared.

Al tilted his helmet in a way that said if he'd had lips he'd be smirking, then the suit of armor turned and trudged out into the hallway, leaving Ed alone with Mustang.

The traitor.

The oxygen machine whispered, almost loud enough to mask the squeak of a passing cart out in the hallway.

And Mustang just looked at him with that analyzing stare, like he was splicing him apart with his gaze alone, ripping away what was in front of him to get at Ed's soul beneath.

Yeah, this was definitely uncomfortable.

Ed stared back, but his poker face wasn't nearly as good as Mustang's. After all, he wasn't a two-faced sociopath. He shifted uneasily against his pillows, automail fingers fiddling with the pages of his book.

"You saved my life again. Maybe twice."

Ed's eyes widened before he looked away, raising a hand to rub the side of his head. "Look," he said, or rather tried, lips moving even though no sound came out.

"You know I can't hear a word you're saying," Mustang said, amusement in his voice.

Ed looked at him again, both annoyed and maybe a little desperate. It was not a stretch to say he'd rather be eating rusted staples than having this conversation.

It reminded him of standing over Mustang in that old warehouse just a couple of weeks ago, when Mustang started telling him about how he'd died and how they'd had a funeral for him, and how somewhere out in the hills there was an empty grave, a small wooden cross bearing his name sunken into the cold earth where his body very well might have been, had things turned out differently.

Yeah, he didn't like following that particular train of thought, but Mustang seemed dead set on forcing him down it anyway. Maybe the man needed some sort of closure and thought Ed did, too.

Well, Ed most certainly did not, and as soon as it got overwhelmingly awkward, maybe he could just asphyxiate himself or something.

"Guess you'll just have to listen for a minute," Mustang continued.

Ed's lips twisted into a grim line and he redirected his gaze out the window in silent surrender.

The faster Mustang started talking, the faster he left, and the sooner Ed could pretend that this conversation never happened.

"I . . ." Mustang began, but stopped. Ed looked back at him, just in case he'd had a stroke. No such luck. "It was my fault, what happened to you in the first place, and—"

Ed picked up a wadded piece of paper and lobbed it at him.

It struck Mustang on the forehead. "Hey!"

Ed just shook his head. They'd already had this conversation and he had no desire to repeat it. He made a "move along" gesture with his hand.

Mustang scowled at him. "Fine. Anyway, I . . . I think," he looked over his shoulder like he was afraid somebody would be listening, then pitched his voice lower. "Things are different than they were. Are you aware?"

. . . to be fair, Mustang didn't always make sense on the best of days.

Ed's confusion must have been broadcasted across his features, because Mustang's own expression tightened. "Edward. There's something going on here that's a lot bigger than you."

Ed bristled.

"Not like that. There are things happening . . . that map, this country . . . Ed, we got lucky," he said, one hand grabbing the bridge of his nose. And was it just Ed, or was there a slight tremble in his fingers?

"You died." Mustang's voice cracked on the word. It took him a few seconds to start talking again. "Jean almost died. Riza, Hughes, Feury and I almost died. If what we're theorizing is true, this corruption goes above my head. I . . . I can't protect you from this, Fullmetal."

Fullmetal. In this kind of context, it was a sure sign Mustang was trying to disassociate from the conversation.

"I know how much you want to get your bodies back," he continued. "But after you get out of the hospital, I want you to take some leave."

Heat pooled inside Ed's gut like a flame springing from smoldering embers. Mustang wasn't even looking, though. Ed picked up his notepad and scribbled on the page, adding enough pressure to push the pen tip through the first page a few times.

"I want you to go back to Resembool and keep a low profile for a few months until this all plays out. There's too much going on right now . . . too much uncertainty. I want you two out of it until we can—hey!" he barked, the paper projectile hitting him between the eyes. Ed wasn't such a bad shot after all. "Stop throwing things!"

Ed gestured to the note with his pen, irritation carving tangible lines between his eyebrows.

Roy glanced between him and the paper, picking it up from his lap like it was a grenade. He unfolded it, the paper crinkling in his hands. "No?" he asked aloud, but Ed was pretty sure he'd put an exclamation mark at the end of that statement. He went back to his notebook. "What do you mean, 'no'? This isn't up for debate, Fullmetal." Telltale signs of anger heated his voice, making it lower than usual, tighter. "I want you and Alphonse as far away from this as possible. You want your brother safe, don't you? And you know as well as I do that he won't stay put without you."

It was a low blow and Mustang knew it.

Ed threw his next note.

Mustang caught it this time, scowling, opening it with a bit less trepidation and a bit more impatience. Ed kept writing. 'Al can take care of himself and so can I. We don't need a babysitter.' I beg to differ Fullmetal, but . . . can you stop writing for five seconds and listen?!"

Ed did no such thing. He had a lot to say, and less than seventy-five legal pad pages to say it in.

He was going to make this moron see reason if he had to write it on his eyeballs.

"Fullmetal." Before Ed saw it coming, the older man snatched the pad from his automail fingers, drawing a sharp slash across the page from Ed's surprised hand. Ed blinked then scowled, a snarl pulling his lips, but Mustang was already talking.

"Do you know what would happen if we lost you, you stupid brat?!" he hissed.

Ed paused, taken aback by the rawness of the question, the simple sentence laced with enough acid to melt steel.

Mustang was looking him in the eye now, and his gaze was powerful enough to hold Ed's own, dark eyes black with pain and fear, displayed in a way Ed had seen glimpses of during their time on the run, but now it was brought to bear on him like artillery. The Colonel looked away, over to the side, but it was too late to hide it.

The older man breathed through his nose once, twice, but composure seemed to be beyond him at the moment.

"We did lose you, Ed. We lost you for months! And I almost lost you again when you showed up on my hospital floor. And before that, with Lust, I had to-" his voice crumpled like a tin can, crushed with sharp edges.

Ed wasn't exactly proud that he had put Mustang in a situation where he had to, in effect, kill him. He would also be lying if he said he hadn't woken up from a handful of nightmares of being on fire, Truth's terrible voice laughing in the background while Ed writhed and suffocated on smoke . . .

It was a dumb, desperate stunt that ended up saving lives. Ed didn't regret it, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Evidently Mustang was on the same train of thought. He stared at his hands in his lap, one thumb slipping against his middle finger almost mindlessly, a blankness in his eyes now that Ed wasn't sure he liked any more than the rawness.

"This isn't a game, Edward. These people, these things, they are very real and very dangerous, and just because one of them is dead now . . . we don't know how many are left and what they're planning on doing, and I know I can't keep you out of all of it, but I can make it as difficult to get to you as possible. Just some space between you and the military right now would give us a chance to—what?"

Ed gestured at the notepad.

Scowl returning, Roy looked down at the paper in his lap.

"You can't chase us away from this. We're involved now, we're already 'perfect sacrifices, or whatever, and a few hundred miles isn't going to change that. I—" Mustang looked from the note to Ed, his hand loosening it's white-knuckled grip just a fraction, the anger melting into something closer to understanding than it had been a second ago. Ed felt heat in his cheeks but held his gaze until Mustang directed it back to the note. "I'm not going to lose any more family, and that unfortunately includes you, you self-centered, scum licking, scruffy looking old—"

Mustang blinked, then swallowed. A strained smile pulled at his lips. Somehow, the expression softened the haunted look in his eyes by a fraction. "That last part was just excessive."

Ed smirked. They were once more back on solid ground.

And Ed didn't even have to pull the asphyxiation card.

Mustang slumped in his chair, propping his head on his fist and giving Ed that look that felt like he was staring right to the core of him. "You are too stubborn, Fullmetal."

Ed relaxed back into his pillows and arched an eyebrow.

Mustang regarded him a few moments more. "And there's nothing I can possibly say to convince you?"

Ed shook his head and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It seemed childish at the moment.

"I want you boys safe," Mustang continued quietly. If Ed hadn't been staring right at him he might have missed it entirely.

The irony of it was, with a target on their backs, there was probably no place in this country safer than here, right in Colonel Roy Mustang's shadow.

Yeah, irony sucked.

Without a voice, Ed reached out his flesh hand and patted the older man on the head.

Mustang scowled, but didn't brush him aside. "Now you're mocking me."

Ed grinned and gestured for his notepad back. Mustang obliged, leaning in to look over Ed's hand and read aloud, "I just remembered I owe you something." Mustang looked up at Ed. "What's that?"

Ed smiled sweetly.

Mustang squinted suspiciously.

Then Ed hauled off and punched Mustang in his stupid, smarmy, could-see-him-the-entire-time face.

Being alive, Ed decided, certainly had its perks.

Fin.

It's over and I'm not gonna cry, no, because this wasn't my emotional support fic or anything, noooo.

I thought for sure there were two chapters left, but then I started writing and there definitely weren't. I was very sad when I found out xD But now we wrap up SSB, and then NEW FICS. If you follow me on tumblr, you might know that up next we have a chimera!Roy fic, and a CoS fix-it fic coming soon, because I can't just not have a WIP to update, and now it seems I enjoy having multiple WIPs to update. Idk what's wrong with me xD

Shoutout to firewoodfigs that will always read my unedited trash and tell me it's not that bad, I appreciate that ;v;

Anyways, to all that have been reading, reviewing, commenting, encouraging, and overall putting up with my nonsense, thank you :heart: You guys are the absolute best and this fic wouldn't be here without your encouragement. Thank you, and I will see you in the next fic :)

God Bless,

-RainFlame