When Roy was lucid enough, he found out that in addition to a dislocated arm, bruised trachea, lung damage from smoke inhalation and a hundred superficial wounds, he had sustained a concussion. He was kept bedridden for three days with a pair of MPs outside his door at all times. On the third day, they disappeared. When he asked Hawkeye about it during her next visit, she simply said that the Fuhrer had cleared him.
Roy pulled the oxygen mask down from his face. "Cleared me?" he asked, voice raw and scratchy and painful.
Hawkeye gave him a look that was as incredulous as he felt. "Feury as well. General Grumman came by yesterday. He said they found Archer the morning after Ed went missing. He was dead in his room."
"Dead?" Roy asked dumbly, mind spinning to process the words beneath the haze of the concussion and pain medication. How could he be dead? Why would he be dead? And how did that exonerate Roy of the murders of the MP Charlie Riggs and Nicoli Vasovik? Or Ed's supposed kidnapping?
"Murdered." Hawkeye supplied. "I was not allowed to see the ME report, but Second Lieutenant Ross accidentally left the case file behind on Falman's desk for a good half hour before remembering and returning for it."
Roy gave her half a smile. "Oh? That was careless of her."
"Completely thoughtless," Hawkeye agreed, expression giving away nothing. She continued, "Archer was stabbed by a long blade, or possibly a pair. The cause of death was blood loss when both carotid arteries were severed, most likely simultaneously in a scissor cut with two blades." She mimed the murder, crossing her wrists at her neck with index fingers extended, then drawing them across the base of her pale throat in an 'x'. "The positioning of the body and the manner of execution suggests that the attacker was someone he knew. He had no chance or no will to defend himself. A confession letter was found at the scene, saying he was responsible for the deaths of Riggs, Vasovik and Edward's disappearance."
"That's quite the coincidence." Roy glanced up at the white ceiling tiles, mind sluggishly coming to conclusions he didn't like. "Any suspects?"
"No one that anybody with a scrap of sense would care to point fingers at," she said, voice heavy with warning.
Roy tried to raise his eyebrows in a picture of innocence. "Hawkeye, I'm quite certain that I have no idea what you are implying."
"Sir—"
Roy didn't want to think about all of it now. "How's Havoc doing?"
She frowned at him to let him know that he didn't fool her before answering. "He's doing fine, considering the circumstances. He's going to be bedridden for a few more days, though." Havoc had sustained a host of internal injuries and broken ribs from blunt force trauma, and the internal bleeding had almost cost him his life. His spleen had ruptured and had to be removed immediately upon arrival to the hospital, and he had to have almost eight liters of blood pumped into his system before they were able to get the bleeding under control. He had a long road ahead of him. It made Roy sick to think it had all happened on his watch because of his own carelessness.
"Breda?"
"He's getting out this afternoon," she informed. "They said his oxygen levels are holding just fine." Breda had managed to avoid serious injury, and it always surprised Roy just how fast the man was, despite his portly appearance. The worst he had were a few burns from the fire Roy had generously supplied.
Roy always hated asking the last question.
"And Ed?"
Her eyes darkened a bit, but she held his gaze. "Physically, he's healing, though he is still refusing food and is receiving nutrients intravenously until he is able to manage on his own. He still hasn't said a word. Silas said it could be related to the trauma."
Roy tried to suppress his sudden nausea. After all this . . . after everything, it still wasn't over. It wasn't fair. "How long will this last?"
She shook her head. "There's no way to tell. No one can even tell for certain if it's involuntary or if he just doesn't want to speak."
"I want to see him."
"As soon as Silas clears you to get up."
"Which should be today!"
The new voice had Roy turning his head much too fast, sending his vision swimming. He raised his good hand to rub at his eyes with a groan.
"Or we could postpone if needed . . ." Silas trailed off.
"No, today's good," Roy assured him, gingerly opening his eyes to see the small doctor now at the foot of his bed, flipping through his medical file.
"Alright, then!" Silas said, scribbling something then looking up at Roy, blue eyes bright. "Well, your stats look good, blood pressure normal, oxygen looks decent for you not wearing your mask for the past fifteen minutes," he informed with a grin.
"Then I don't need it anymore?"
Silas kept the grin. "You'll be wearing it when you sleep for the rest of the week, at least."
Roy rolled his eyes. "So, can I get up now?"
"Well, as long as you use the wheelchair, I think it would be good for you to get out of this room." It must have shown on Roy's face what he thought about wheelchairs, because Silas chuckled. "It won't be that bad. It sure beats spending another day in bed, yes?"
"I suppose."
"Well, I'll send the physical therapist down to get you situated after lunch," Silas assured him, writing down something else. "For now, I suggest getting some more sleep." He gave Hawkeye a pointed look. "Getting up after three days horizontal is no picnic!"
Hawkeye smiled at him. "Thank you, Doctor. He'll get plenty of rest," she assured, passing on a warning look to Roy.
Silas turned heel and swept out the door, whistling as he went.
Roy groaned as he left. "I don't think I could sleep anymore if I wanted to."
"Do you need some motivation, sir?" Her hand moved to rest on her sidearm.
"On second thought, if you don't mind closing the door on your way out, I think I feel a nap coming on."
XxXxX
Ed had grown used to many things.
It had taken time, and it had taken the gentle voices of Hawkeye, Feury and Falman explaining them to him, but now he didn't have as many panic attacks, and he usually remembered where he was. He could recognize many things:
The quick steps of the night nurse as she changed his bedpan and replaced saline bags. The quiet voice of the day nurse that talked to him about how well he was doing as she changed his oxygen tank and redressed his wounds. He knew the squeak of Falman's boots and the sharp click of Hawkeye's and the timid shuffle that indicated Feury was going to be sitting beside him that day. He knew the beep of the heart monitor, the hiss of the breathing apparatus and Silas' cheery voice as he announced Ed's progress several times a day. He knew the clap of clipboards and the scratches of pencils and the crisp snap of bed linens being changed.
But this sound was new.
It sounded like the food carts that passed by his open door so often, but smoother and softer somehow, without the rattle of dishes. It was accompanied by a pair of steps, and Ed felt his unease grow, as he did not recognize these footsteps and they were coming closer.
They stopped at his bed, and a voice he didn't recognize spoke. "I'll be back later." Then the footsteps left.
He could hear breathing.
"Fullmetal."
All of the tension Ed had felt earlier left him in a rush.
Over the past three days, Ed had time to think about what had happened. He had spent careful thought trying to discern what had really transpired and what had been Envy's influence. Some of his memories were still too blurred or too painful to sort out, but Ed was sure that he had figured out most of it.
Except Mustang. Ed still hadn't figured him out.
He vividly remembered Archer visiting, promising to haul him off to some orphanage somewhere. He recalled Mustang telling him nothing of the sort would happen.
But he also remembered Mustang pulling away, growing distant. He remembered Mustang leaving him alone when Ed needed him most, abandoning him.
But he remembered Mustang there, fighting Envy with everything just to save Ed.
He remembered trusting him.
Ed didn't know which Mustang was the real one.
"Hawkeye said you haven't said a word since being here," Mustang began, tone almost casual. But Ed had listened closely to that voice for a long time, through sleepless nights and panic attacks, and he could hear the tension underneath the nonchalance. "Is there a reason for that?"
Ed didn't respond. There were actually two very good possible reasons. The first and foremost was the damage inflicted by inhaling far too much smoke and being half-strangled. It left his throat constantly dry and rough and even simple breathing could send him into a coughing fit that hurt. Swallowing was even more painful, despite the amount of painkillers he was most likely on.
The second possible reason, Ed could not determine or understand. He had read about—and experienced— Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and he knew it could do strange things to the mind and the body. Silas had hinted at that being the reason when Ed had opened his mouth to reply and nothing sounded. The doctor had explained that it was either from the physical damage, or that Ed's body still knew how to talk, his mind just made him forget for a little while. Ed had wanted to ask how long he would be without his voice, but without his sight and without a voice and without a hand, there wasn't much he could do to communicate.
Mustang sighed. "She also said you aren't eating. Again. What are we going to do with you, Fullmetal?"
Ed swallowed roughly, overly aware of the IV taped to the crook of his arm. He imagined the whole limb looked pretty wretched with his hand broken and a collection of painful, deep contusions running up and down his arm. He was certain the other side looked worse, though. Not only were the remains of his arm and leg automail detached, but a majority of the outer shell of his shoulder port had been surgically removed upon his arrival at the hospital. It seemed that performing alchemy blind with crudely drawn circles made of blood was actually a terrible idea. The rebound had damaged what little shoulder he had around the port and almost sent shrapnel into his carotid artery, according to Silas. He'd almost killed himself with that stupid stunt.
The stunt that saved Mustang's life.
"Ed, nod if you're listening to me," Mustang interrupted, his voice suddenly serious.
Ed jumped at the sudden order, quickly nodding out of reflex.
"I've got something I need to tell you, Ed . . . well, two things, really . . ." he trailed off, and Ed wished that he could see what Mustang was thinking. His voice was hesitant, distracted. Maybe even guilty.
Ed was suddenly wary. He shifted uncomfortably, but pain medication only took one so far, and the shooting pain down his body stopped him.
He felt a weight on his bed, like maybe Mustang was resting his elbows on the thin mattress. Ed wasn't sure what to expect, and he felt the tension in the room like a string pulled just a bit too tight.
"Ed, I . . . everything that's happened to you . . . all of this has been my fault."
Well, that was the last thing Ed had expected.
Ed didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to hear any of it, but like watching a train wreck, he couldn't break away from it. Some sort of macabre fascination kept him from ignoring the older man.
"I let you be sent up North," the words were forced and stiff, something unnatural wearing Mustang's voice. "I knew something wasn't right, but I let you go anyway. I should have known . . . I did know, I just didn't want to admit something like that was possible . . . and because of that, I almost lost you." His weight shifted, closer and pleading. "And then it took me so long to find you. I was useless . . . a wet match." The following laugh was short and mirthless. "Ed, I screwed up. In all kinds of ways. This whole thing is my fault, and I don't think I can ask you to forgive me. I can't even forgive myself for what I've done to you. All of this is my fault. All of it."
He sounded like a lost child, repeating it over and over again. Ed couldn't stand it.
He knew which Mustang was the real one.
And maybe he had known all along.
Before Ed could pause to think about it, he was speaking. "Don't . . ." Ed tried, the sound nothing but a rasp of air, his voice like sandpaper and his throat aching at the attempt. His voice sounded strange, deformed somehow, and just the effort of that one word had him stopping to rest his sore jaw.
He heard Mustang stiffen beside him and tried again, the first word barely a squeak in the oxygen mask before the next one followed. "Don't be . . . an idiot."
"Ed—"
Ed tried to tell him to shut up, but nothing but a whistle came out. He panted, tired from the exertion and frustrated with his inability to communicate. The mask over his mouth and nose were doing him no favors, either, but with one hand gone and the other too busted to move, he didn't have a lot of options. He took a breath and tried again. "S-stop." There. Less syllables than 'shut up,' anyway.
Mustang shifted. "I guess this might be a discussion for another day," he decided.
Ed wasn't finished. "For . . . give you."
"What?"
If Ed were able, he would have rolled his eyes. As it was, speaking was exhausting. "I . . . forgive you."
Mustang sat in silence for a moment before responding. "Thank you, Ed," he said, voice suddenly a bit thicker than it had been moments ago.
They sat in silence for a while, this one nothing like the previous one. There was a peace about it, like afternoons in Resembool and walks with Alphonse. Ed just sat and listened to Mustang's breathing and the hiss of oxygen, and Mustang seemed to be lost in thought
Mustang cleared his throat. "I guess . . . I mean, well," Mustang began, the words coming out in a rush, like he'd had to talk himself into saying them. "There was something else I needed to tell you. I thought you should know . . ."
Ed waited impatiently for Mustang to continue, taking in one dry breath after another.
"I . . . well, to keep Archer and anyone from getting at you . . . it was for your own protection . . ."
Broken hand or no broken hand, Ed would get up from the bed and throttle the old man if he didn't spit it out.
"I . . . well, I adopted you."
Ed did a mental double take.
He must have been hearing things, because that made no sense. "Wha-?"
"I adopted you," Mustang repeated like he was trying not to choke. Ed could relate. "It doesn't have to be permanent," he added quickly. The only thing that seemed to keep Mustang from nervous laughter and explosive disclaimers was a lifetime of military training. "I mean, if you don't want it, we can undo the whole thing later, after things settle down."
Looking back on the situation, Ed probably would have said it was the drugs or the pain or just the exhaustion. There were a number of things that could explain his reaction, all of them plausible and sensible.
Ed cried.
Tears burned his dead eyes, sliding down his face and burning through a myriad of cuts and abrasions before dripping off his jaw and onto the sheets beneath him.
"Ed, what's wrong?" Mustang said, the choking uncertainty suddenly gone. "Ed, is something hurting?"
Ed shook his head, the tiny movement hurting his neck enough to make him stop. "No."
Yes, Ed knew which Mustang was the real one.
"What's wrong?" Mustang demanded again.
Ed's real father might have walked out on him years ago, but over the past few weeks Mustang had proven above and beyond that in a way, he had always been there, filling that missing part of his life more effectively than Hohenheim ever could.
And this time, that crippling doubt that had followed him since the basement eased, like mist banished in the sunlight.
"Nothing," Ed whispered. "Nothing."
It wasn't much later that Ed was told there was a call waiting for him at the nurse's station.
When the nurse finally got him into a wheelchair with Hawkeye's help, Ed was ready to claw out the IV and the mask and hop there himself. In the wheelchair next to him, Mustang—it was too surreal to call him Dad—told him to calm down and be patient, but Ed couldn't help it.
It could only be one person.
The trip to the phone took an eternity, but soon something cold and smooth was pushed up to his ear and something settled in his lap, the mouthpiece pressed to his chin.
And Ed had no idea what to say.
"Al?" he whispered.
"Brother!"
I can't apologize enough for the wait! This chapter has been completely done for literally two months. I've just been tweaking it to death and second guessing myself this whole time because I wanted to end it right :'D I still don't know if it's done well, but I'm at the point where I'm doing more harm than good. Might just be out of my league with this haha.
We have an epilogue left! Or maybe I don't understand the definition of "epilogue" very well, and it's just one more chapter haha. Either way, OH MY GOSH, ONE MORE UPDATE AND ALL OF THIS IS OVER.
I'm not going to freak out. No. I'm going to remain cool, calm and collected. Like ice.
I am ice.
I'm going to cry at the end of the next chapter. I will bawl like I do in the first ten minutes of the movie "Up." Be forewarned xD
I apologize for the lack of responses to reviews this past time, but I am sick right now and fevers make me pretty darn lazy xD I'll be responding to these, though. How could I not? Second to last update xD
If you have the time, please drop a review, and I'll see you next time.
The last time ;_;
One more update.
God Bless,
-RainFlame
