Ed couldn't remember a time when he had seen Mustang cry.

Well, technically, he still had never seen Mustang cry, but he knew it was happening. Even as Ed's own tears were drying, he heard the older man start to weep and could smell the salt of his tears.

At first, Ed was shocked, certain that he was hearing wrong, his mind playing tricks on him again, because the Colonel simply didn't cry. The man was a machine, almost invincible, and at one time, Ed had convinced himself that he was completely heartless.

Logically, Ed new better than that, but this had driven the point home. He wasn't the only one with problems. He wasn't the only one struggling.

Mustang was just as human as he was, and somehow, this revelation changed things. It was like walking down a dark forest path, and when the night was at its blackest, realizing that someone was there, walking by your side the whole time.

And despite his handicap, despite his little brother being gone, and despite everything the man had done, Ed didn't feel quite so alone anymore.

He almost felt . . . safe.

Beside him, the Colonel let out a heavy sigh. "Well, guess that's enough of that," he said, voice still thick from moments before. His shoulder was warm underneath Ed's temple and helped ease the aching chill that usually settled deep in his bones. Even though he generally disliked contact of any kind, he decided that this wasn't so bad. It didn't hurt, and he could pull away from it whenever he wanted, unless Mustang didn't release him. But he wasn't even all that concerned about it, which almost bothered him in itself. Surely he needed to be more vigilant? Months of ingrained paranoia and terror shouldn't be so easily undone by shared tears and a hug.

Ed was weak and vulnerable to a terrifying extent. He shouldn't let the older man so close, no matter what he said. Alphonse was gone now, after all. When he was still around, Ed had found it in himself to extend the Colonel a measure of trust, but now things were different. He was alone here, and already Mustang had betrayed him, drugging him when he was practically helpless. He had no reason to trust him if as soon as his little brother was gone, he immediately took advantage of him. Alphonse would have never allowed it, and it scared him that he had been powerless to stop it, and it had been so easy for Mustang to overpower him. Added on top of that, the drugs had turned him into a mindless zombie. Mustang could have done all manner of things to him, and Ed would have been completely unaware and unable to stop him.

He understood why, and he couldn't entirely blame him for it. He knew as well as anyone that he could get out of hand when his mind slipped, but . . . well, it had scared him. The lack of control was terrifying, given his preexisting vulnerability. His mind was his last defense, and any missed detail could make the difference between being safe and being back in that basement again.

And yet . . . with Mustang's arm around his shoulder and the scent of his tears in the air, Ed felt safe enough to fall asleep there, trusting the older man to watch over his resting body. Why? Did he really think Mustang was all that remorseful over the whole thing? Or maybe this went deeper than Ed knew and all he was seeing was the tip of the iceberg.

Mustang had promised not to do it again, something that, despite Ed's compulsive offer to allow it, made him weak with relief. He'd said he was wrong, promised he would try. He'd asked for Ed's patience, like Ed had asked for his. How could Ed deny him that when he had done nothing but try? How could he continue to be so suspicious of the man that had found him, carried him out of purgatory when he was starved and naked and raving like a rabid animal? He had stayed by his side when he had nothing to gain from it . . . how could Ed continue to treat him the way he had?

All he knew was that he had the irrational instinct to make Mustang feel better, to make his life easier, and he didn't like it. It made him feel manipulated somehow.

He shook his head. None of his thoughts made sense! The stupid tranquilizers were still screwing with him. His mind was jumping all over the place.

"Are you alright, Ed?" Mustang asked, gentle concern in his voice.

He resisted the urge to pull back. He didn't like feeling confused, and the Colonel's kindness wasn't helping.

"I'm fine." After a moment's thought, he asked, "Are you okay?"

He could hear the smile in the older man's weakened voice. "Fine. I guess we should go get ready for your appointment. We only have a couple of hours."

Ed did his best to clamp down on a panic attack by redirecting his thoughts to something else. He'd have to have lunch first before he would have to leave the house. That's right, he didn't have to leave the house yet. He didn't have to go out around all those strangers and new environments he didn't recognize and that awful, biting cold that was so terribly similar to that basement . . .

"Ed?"

"Uh, yeah. I'll go . . . change." He hated how reluctant his body was to move away from Mustang, from the safety of it, but he quickly forced himself to pull away, struggling to his feet as the blanket wrapped around his legs.

A strong hand steadied him at the elbow and it was a tremendous force of will to not flinch away from the iron grip.

"Do you need some help?" Mustang asked. Ed could practically feel the critical stare drilling holes in his forehead.

Ed quickly and easily slipped into the comfortable role he'd built for himself. It was back to stable, familiar ground where he knew what to say and how to say it. He could be annoyed with Mustang. It was second nature to him, and it felt a lot more reliable than the strange thoughts and emotions still buzzing inside of his head. "You don't think I can dress myself?" Ed demanded irritably, but his voice was still muddled from tears and took some of the edge off of his growl.

"Fullmetal," Mustang sighed. Despite his tone, there was some lightness to his voice now, and though it was shadowed, Ed could tell he'd found the familiar arguing more comfortable, too. "You're wearing brown trousers and a black shirt."

Ed scowled at that, floundering for an excuse. Before Alphonse had left, he would set out matching clothes for him every morning, then let him dress himself. This was the first morning he had tried to find his own clothes, and he honestly hadn't been too worried about it. He didn't really own much clothing, and what little he had was predominantly black, so he had been pretty confident in picking out an ensemble that matched. He went by texture of clothe; he remembered his black dress slacks were smooth and fine, he had two sweaters, one red and made of coarse yarn, the other black and soft. He had several pair of black and brown trousers and he couldn't recall much of a difference in texture, so he had guessed. He only had about eight winter shirts, and of those, over half of them were black, so he grabbed the one that felt the most worn and hoped it worked.

"When did you join the fashion police?"

"I'm just trying to help. I know you're stunted anyway when it comes to fashion sense, but you look as put together as a preschooler's painting."

"I'm not short! And you try matching colors blind!" he snapped, jerking his arm back and stalking back up the stairs and down the hall. His stalking now was more of a slightly-more-motivated shuffle, but it conveyed his irritation all the same. Stupid smug jerk.

"That's my point," Mustang said, coming up right behind him. "I know you have no fashion sense anyway, but let me at least help you be presentable."

"Look who's talking. You wear a uniform with a butt cape."

"I was not consulted on the uniform's design when they were issued twenty years ago. It's hardly my fault." Mustang put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and guiding him inside his room when he missed the turn off. "But you wear that tacky red coat by choice, and that's the real offense here."

Ed mumbled under his breath and allowed Mustang to sit him on the edge of the bed while he listened to the older man rifle through the dresser drawers and tried not to feel intruded upon. It was one thing to admit to needing some help, but accepting that help was another matter entirely, and right now, a man that Ed had formerly believed wouldn't have had a second thought about setting him on fire if he made him mad enough was going through his drawers in an attempt to find him matching clothes. There was something unsettling about it, like letting a stray dog in the house and giving it free reign, uncertain if it will be grateful for the trust extended to it, or rip your throat out while you slept.

His mind told him that he was alone here. With Alphonse not around to be his eyes, he simply had to be careful.

But something else in him said that Mustang had already proven himself, that he had been walking this dark path for as long as Ed had and maybe he even knew the way out, if only Ed could trust him enough to follow.

"Are these all you have?"

Jolted from his thoughts, Ed had to think a moment to make sense of the question. "Yeah. I never really needed more than that when we traveled all the time. We mostly just lived out of that suitcase."

Mustang seemed to consider this for a moment. "We should see about getting you a few things. Maybe something not black."

Ed scowled. "I like black. It's none of your business, anyway."

"Some of these are looking a bit threadbare, though, and dare I say it: it looks like your trousers might be just a bit short."

"I'm not short!"

"That's not what I sa—"

"And I can always just trans . . . trans . . ." he stopped. The word transmute stuttered and died on his lips and he remembered the last time he had transmuted anything. He was in the basement, and the hunger and the pain and the cold were starting to take a toll on his body. He couldn't remember when he had last eaten anything of substance, and the stone floor and walls bit painfully into his rapidly-thinning body. Everything hurt, and then there were those stupid mutts. How long had he been stuck down here with them? Weeks? Months? It was hard to tell, but Ed was certain of one thing; he had endured his fill. He was tired of waiting for rescue, tired of hoping that someone would find him and take him home. He was on his last legs, so to speak, and if he didn't get out of here soon, he wouldn't have the strength to do it.

"Edward!"

Ed flinched, suddenly brilliantly conscious of the soft mattress beneath him and the smell of Mustang's house and the lack of blood and incredible pain. Not the basement. Not the basement, not the basement, not the basement!

"Sorry," he breathed, shaking his head, trying to dispel the images and sensations of being back there. "I'm sorry." No one responded, and he felt a thrill of panic. "Mustang?"

"Right here, Ed," the older man responded, not far in front of him. "Are you okay?"

Ed shuddered and pulled the blanket around himself, feeling the comforting weight of it around his shoulders that helped him fight off the chill of his memories. "Fine." He hated the way his voice trembled, some distant part of him hoping Mustang wouldn't think less of him for it. Then he recalled with disgust that Mustang had seen far worse and tried to fold in on himself, wrapping his whole body up in the fabric and curling up on his side at the foot of the bed.

It was no wonder Alphonse and Mustang both thought he needed to go see a shrink. Look at him! A word had sent him over the edge! A word!

He was so tired of this . . . of everything. He was tired of feeling humiliated and helpless. Of being confused and afraid. He wasn't safe asleep or awake, and he could feel his mind starting to fray even further, separate realities warring for dominance and tearing him apart. Alphonse was the balm for it all, the threads that kept him together, but he felt his brother's absence like a hole in his spirit and he wasn't sure if he could move past it, or even if he wanted to.

The bed suddenly dipped near his head and Ed shied away from it, scrunching and retreating under his blanket.

"Ed?" the strong, very familiar baritone asked, and Ed forced himself to relax, forcing away the telling tension that made Mustang nervous and worried. For some reason, it bothered Ed that Mustang worried. "It's okay, Ed."

A warm weight settled on his shoulder and he fought past a shudder. It wasn't okay. If it were okay, he wouldn't be blind, Al would be there, and he wouldn't be on his way to see a shrink because his mind had turned into his own personal purgatory.

But he didn't have it in him to tell Mustang. He was too tired, his brain too foggy, and Mustang would only give him one of his pep talks. Ed wasn't in the mood.

"Come on, Ed," Mustang said, purposely making his voice soothing, like he was talking with a wild animal. "If you're okay, you need to get ready. We'll have to leave soon."

Ed absently wondered if Mustang would go away if he ignored him.

"Do you need me to help you dress?"

Well, Mustang certainly knew how to get him motivated. "Get out," he mumbled, slowly dragging himself to a sitting position. He'd had his fill of coddling and being 'helped,' though if his afternoon's schedule was anything to go by, there was probably going to be a lot more of it before the day was up. Ed was certain that leaving the relative safety of the house was going to be disastrous.

The thought of it made him shiver and almost had him cowering under the blanket again.

Mustang made a noise, as if about to say something, but stopped himself.

It took Ed a moment to calm down. "I'll meet you downstairs," he promised finally, not moving as he waited to hear Mustang's reaction to his declaration.

Mustang hesitated, then the bed shifted and he stood by the bedside. "Are you sure you don't need help?"

"I can dress myself just fine, Colonel," he said, trying to force some fire into his voice and failing miserably. He just sounded tired and beaten and he loathed it.

Again, Mustang paused, as if he were about to point out how blatantly incapable Ed was of doing anything, no matter how simple the task. Ed was preparing a searing reply to any objection he might have, but Mustang only said, "Alright. I'll see you downstairs in a minute."

The older man reluctantly left Ed by himself. Ed listened, but when Mustang left, he didn't shut the door, and Ed couldn't help but notice his footsteps never faded down the stairs. Ed supposed he couldn't blame him for hovering, though. Maybe the only stray dog in the house was Ed, and even Ed himself wasn't sure when he would bite next.


Roy was glad that he had allowed plenty of time for Ed's limitations when he tried to get Ed to the car.

The boy was currently frozen in the entryway, blind eyes wide as he struggled with the notion of going out in the cold, a sensation that was most likely terribly reminiscent of his time in Drachma. His red coat was absent, lost sometime during his capture no doubt, and around his shoulders he wore one of Roy's old woolen overcoats. It dwarfed him in its volume, but despite that, Ed had his blanket gathered in his arms like a child with a teddy bear. If Ed had been more himself, he would have died of humiliation then and there, being seen dragging a "blanky" around like that, but as it was, it was a tenuous link to the rational world, and if that's what it took to keep him here, Roy would gladly put up with it.

"I'm going to open the door now, alright?" Roy asked. At Ed's panicked look, he quickly amended, "We don't have to go out in it yet. We'll just stand here for a while. Does that sound okay?"

Ed stared. "I . . ." His voice failed him and he closed his mouth and swallowed, giving Roy a small, weak nod instead.

Now apprehensive, Roy mentally braced himself and slowly eased the door open. Icy wind immediately snaked through the crack, dragging in a tide of snowflakes and winter misery. Ed gasped and backed away from the cold, retreating several steps before Roy stepped forward to grab his arm and stop him. It had taken monumental effort to get Ed this far, and they didn't have time for any more setbacks.

Ed didn't take the contact well. He yelped in surprise and terror and tried to tear away from Roy's grip. "Hey," Roy said, trying to keep his voice steady as he slipped behind the boy and wrapped his arms around him to keep him from punching his lights out.

At the sound of his voice and with Roy's arms holding the child close, he felt some of the tension drain away from Ed's shoulders, and he couldn't help but feel a bit pleased by the fact that his touch brought comfort instead of panic. Maybe he was making some progress after all if independent, standoffish Edward Elric felt more secure there in his embrace than relying on his own impaired senses to keep him safe.

At the same time, he couldn't help but feel like he was taking advantage of Ed's handicapped mind. If Mustang hadn't of sent him off North, Ed would have never needed this or consented to it, and the divergence from how Mustang would have expected him to act months ago and how he acted now made it very clear. He had turned a once proud, unstoppable force into a crippled, broken spirit. Roy wanted to bring him comfort, but at the same time, he desperately wished the boy didn't need it.

"Hey, there's nothing to be afraid of," Roy promised gently, shoving his thoughts aside. He had more pressing matters to focus on at the moment.

"I can't do this, Mustang. I can't do it," he said, the words a frightened rush. His hand that wasn't holding the blanket grabbed Roy's arm with fear-driven intensity. "I'll get lost . . . I can't stay here, my mind won't stay, don't make me do this, please!"

"Shh, Ed." Roy stroked his hair back and hoped the touch was soothing. "Have I ever asked you to do something I didn't think you could handle?"

The blond shook his head. "This isn't the same! I'm not the same! There's got to be another way . . . I can't stay here if I go out there!"

"Ed, you're not making sense," Roy interrupted. "Come on, that's enough stalling, don't you think? We're going to miss your appointment."

"Fine! We can miss it, just don't make me do this!" he whimpered, backing into Roy as if seeking protection instead of escape. "Please, Mustang." His voice broke, and with it Roy's heart.

How could he possibly make Ed walk out in that weather when he was so terrified? What kind of monster was he, to expect Ed to face his fears alone?

"Do you trust me, Edward?"

The question seemed to take Ed by surprise. His struggling ceased and he blinked, as if forgetting what was going on entirely.

"I . . . I don't . . ."

The hesitation hurt more than Roy was willing to admit, but he had brought it upon himself. The stunt he had pulled the night before had put a rift between them, and even though their conversation on the staircase had taken steps to repair it, it would take more than that to fix what Roy had done.

So Roy would compromise. "Can you try?"

At this, Ed gave a slow nod.

It was a start, anyway.

"Good. I have a plan. I promise you that I will not let anything happen to you, no matter what, understand?"

"What are you going to do?" Ed asked, voice trembling with apprehension.

"Give me the blanket," Roy ordered, plucking it from his hand while he was distracted.

Ed let out a desperate cry, the suddenness of it almost startling Roy into dropping the fabric. He knew the boy was attached to the blanket, seemingly relying on it to keep his sanity as much as he relied on food to keep him alive, but he hadn't anticipated such an intense reaction to its unexpected absence. Ed blindly flailed, hands searching for the stolen comfort. "Edward, hold on!" Roy snapped, one arm dedicated to restraining Ed as the other unfolded the blanket and wrapped it around the boy, coat and all. Ed hushed once it was back, some of the raw fear abated with its familiar weight around him and his fingers dug into the folds, unwilling to part with it anytime in the near future.

With a sigh, Roy situated the blanket so it was covering everything but his face. "I'm going to carry you to the car. I won't let go until you're safe inside. Do you think that might work?"

What little light that was in Ed's gaze seemed to die, replaced by a bone-weary expression that would have looked more at home on a visage thrice Ed's age. It was disconcerting, seeing emotions flipping back and forth across Ed's face like pages of a book, his rational self showing up suddenly in the wake of his mindless fear, the way the eye of a storm settles the surface of a wind-torn lake. "Mustang . . . can we . . . can we please just cancel?" he asked, voice so meek it belonged more to someone like Alphonse.

"Ed, you know this is going to help you," Mustang said to the child in his arms. "This will help make things better."

Ed fixed his blank eyes on the floor, and Roy thought that for a moment it was in defeat. Then he asked softly, "Do . . . do you know what it's like . . . to always be afraid?"

The question took Roy completely by surprise.

Roy knew fear. He knew it with an uncomfortable intimacy that comes from being hunted down like an animal. In Ishval, he had been afraid, and often.

When he thought about it, he shuddered. Fear was exhausting. It was debilitating and suffocating and wholly disturbing, and that was just in short bursts of it.

Edward . . . Ed had been afraid for months. For him, it must have been as common as breathing, something he expected now, that was strange to be without. For the first time, Roy really thought about it, really tried to put himself in Ed's position, and he found his insides turning to ice.

Ed lived like that every day, hoping and praying it would go away, only to be greeted by a new fear, a new nightmare. He never found peace, and Roy was trying to force him out the door in the snow and the cold and the awful memories it held.

No, Roy had never asked Ed to do something Roy thought he couldn't handle, but that didn't mean Roy always knew what he could handle.

"I . . ." words didn't come, and he had to swallow and try again. "You're right, Ed. You're right. I don't know what it's like."

Ed shuddered in his arms like the last leaf on a dying tree. "Please, I know I can't do this." His voice was hushed and pleading. "I'm trying, but I'm not ready for that. . . I'm afraid if I keep flashing back, one time I may not come back, I'll lose my mind . . . and I don't know how much of me is left, Mustang.

"So please . . . please not yet, okay? Just please not yet."

Roy wasn't sure when Ed had started crying, but his voice cracked at the end, and Roy couldn't bear it. He held the boy tightly to him, stroking his hair as he sobbed, babbling broken apologies and pleas. "Shh," Roy whispered. "We're not going out there. We won't. We'll bring the doctor here. I'll figure it out."

Ed sagged in weary relief, clinging to his shirt and crying into his coat. "Thank you, Mustang, thank you," he repeated, so relieved that Roy loathed himself for even trying to get him outside in such a state. It didn't take long for exhaustion to get the better of Ed and he slumped forward tiredly, still spouting gratitude and shaky whimpers as Roy scooped him up off the floor. If it weren't for the automail, the boy wouldn't weigh as much as a child half his age.

With his hip he shut the door, then carefully walked to the living room and sat on the sofa, cradling Ed in his arms.

"We're not going, Ed," he whispered in the boy's ear, one hand stroking his hair as he held him close. "We're not going."

Ed continued to thank him, and it disturbed him to hear Ed babbling as if Roy wasn't there at all. He talked and cried until he exhausted himself and fell asleep, right there in Roy's lap like a frightened child after a nightmare.

Roy just stared, combing his fingers through the boy's pale hair and wishing he knew a way to make all of those nightmares go away.


I hope the length helps make up for the delay lol :'D

You ever have those chapters that you didn't really know where they were going, but knew they were necessary? That was this chapter. I was kind of writing by the seat of my pants with this one. I didn't have a concrete image in my head of how I wanted it to turn out, so I tried to let the characters do all the decision making by themselves. I ended up re-writing and trashing a lot of stuff in the process, though.

All the re-writing is my excuse for the delay, along with that crazy thing called life. Unfortunately, life takes precedence over fan fic writing. It's a sad sort of reality xD

I honestly thought Ed would make it to the psychiatrist's office in the beginning. But then as I was writing, it was like, "No, his only contact with the outside made him faint, and his other contact with multiple people that he didn't know made him so nervous and afraid that it was impairing his healing. Now that Al's gone, of course he won't be able to go outside."

See how well I plan these things? :'D I plan them, then ignore them.

Outline schmoutline. Outlines were made to be ignored xD

It's late. Did any of that actually make sense? But honestly, when do I ever make sense?

Thanks so much to everyone for their continued support :) If you would, leave a review and I'll see you next chapter!

God Bless,

-RainFlame