EDIT 12-19-2012: See AN at bottom for a more detailed description of Ed's recovery process.
It was happening. Everything was finally going to end, and they could all just go back to the way things used to be. No more reminders. No more babying. No more prying questions from overly-concerned adults. No more checking up on him over and over again until he just wanted to scream.
But now that the end was here, he wasn't sure if he was ready for it to be over. Not like this. The thought prompted him to rub the ring of scar tissue capping his port, brick red and still sensitive to touch, grounding him while his memories bled together- an event so common he hardly noticed it anymore.
A squad of soldiers armed with rifles wavered and became stern-faced generals lining the walls of a stately courtroom. The loud-mouth reading off a list of crimes shifted into a forbidding judge, glaring down the room as he read the final verdict. The burlap-clad woman forced to kneel on concrete- now that he thought about it, she was the same as always. Two scenes overlapping in his head- muddying up his thoughts so he almost believed the sudden silence broken by a smattering of explosive noise was just the judge declaring the trial over- until he saw the dark wetness spreading across her chest, watched as she crumbled to the ground screeching her undying love before cursing the world and all in it.
She's dead.
The one thought clear in his mind; a single idea so much easier to grasp than the rest.
She's dead. Because of me.
It wasn't a panicked thought. Not a denial of any sort. He didn't even feel guilty.
She's dead because of me. But I don't care.
It worried him. Just a little. A human being had just died in front of his very eyes. He'd seen the bullets
-crimson spraying from his arm, spattering across white satin-roughened metal chafing exposed membranes-drying gore caked over his neck, his chin, here and there on his chest-
tear through her body and hadn't done anything to stop it. Had watched without a single shred of emotion surfacing. What would Alphonse think if he knew?
She's dead because of me, but I don't care. Why don't I care?
He realized that he was still staring at the corpse. Or at least, where the corpse used to be. It had been moved at some point. He didn't remember seeing that. He blinked and the rest of the scene came into focus, the Colonel standing so close to him they were almost touching, Hawkeye watching him with what could almost be worry- maybe even pity hidden in her eyes, the firing squad below reloading- waiting for their next job to be escorted in and chained to stained concrete.
He stood, grabbing the crutch he hated to admit was his, and limped away. Hawkeye passed him, probably to pull the car as close to the building as possible, though the Colonel kept pace, just watching him with those piercing black eyes.
It was only after they were all safely inside the vehicle- a trial consisting of being boosted into his seat and buckled in by Mustang, a humiliating experience that he didn't dare complain about lest Hawkeye take up the duty herself- that the silence was broken by something other than echoing gunshots. And so the interrogation began again.
How was he feeling? What about his leg? Were his stitches still in place? Was his temporary limb bothering him? Did they need to adjust his sling? Had he taken his last dose of painkillers? He looked pale, should they pull over? He hadn't remembered anything new, had he? What about food? Would he rather grab a bite out or return to Winry and Alphonse at their new apartment?
The same questions they always asked him, answered with the same curt responses he always gave: fine, no, and home.
She gave up eventually, finally realizing that no matter how many times she rephrased her inquiries his answers weren't going to change. That didn't stop her from staring him down through the rear-view mirror. So he closed his eyes and propped his forehead against the window, ignoring the world as best as he could.
He appreciated the distraction, he really did, but he was so tired of this. Everyone insisted on treating him like a piece of glass, afraid of doing the least little thing wrong. He was tired of the daily check-ups and interrogations. Of that look all the lieutenants gave him whenever he walked into the office. The constant bandaging and cleaning of his more stubborn wounds. Winry's endless diagnostics. The innumerable therapeutic exercises. Of being force-fed milk and painkillers, threatened with needles and IV bags. Of his crutch- and even worse- his wheelchair. Of that persistent voice in the back of his mind that knew everyone was hiding something from him, that they knew something he didn't know about himself and that they had no intention of telling him what that thing was.
But he supposed it didn't really matter. He was fine, after all. The entire ordeal was just another result of being Edward Elric, professional screw-up. Just another lost fight. Just another hospital visit. Just another memory of Winry in tears. Just another obstacle to overcome. Just one more normal, everyday, life-threatening incident- barely worthy of mention when compared to the rest of his life.
He knew that. Told himself as much over and over again. And whenever he couldn't shake the feeling that something was different this time, that his paranoia was entirely justified, he'd tell himself to stuff it where the sun don't shine and keep walking.
So what if that woman had carved her mark into his flesh. At least he had a body to mark. Who cared if it hurt every time he even thought of taking another step. He wasn't dead yet. Why did it matter that he couldn't remember much of anything about the two weeks surrounding the attack? He remembered Alphonse, Winry, and alchemy. What more could he possibly need?
Nothing.
He had his family. He had his life. He had promises to keep. He was fine. He would keep moving forward until he made it to his final destination. And when he was finally back home with Winry, when Alphonse could sleep and taste and feel again, after he'd been discharged from the military- then he could think about his past. Think about it and laugh at it all because despite everything, though even 'God' was against them, they had survived.
He hoped that day- that dream- could come true more than anything else in this world. And soon. He was wearing down, making more mistakes every day. He just wanted it all to end. Locking away his memories, burying them in the darkest corners of his mind and throwing himself into the present, always pretending not to notice the way his memory bubbled and buckled- wearing away at every desperate barrier he erected- got a little bit harder every day. It would be nice to break the dam. To release all that pressure and just lay back and laugh again. Laugh and laugh until he cried.
The colonel's voice interrupted his musings, informing him that they had arrived. He opened his eyes and pushed himself away from the window, humming in acknowledgement. Soon enough, he was helped out of the car and up the short flight of stairs leading to his new dwelling. Alphonse met him at the door as always, Winry hovering in the background like a nervous hen.
She took charge of him as soon as he crossed the threshold, fussing and fretting while Al spoke to the colonel about something or other. He wasn't really listening. He was too busy attempting to fend off a pair of overzealous blondes bent on 'helping' him. Before he could do much more than protest, he was seated deep in the cushions of the couch, flanked by soldier and mechanic, while a small rolling table loaded with a variety of pills, a tall glass of milk, and stale toast was shoved in front of him.
"Edward Elric, you should be ashamed! Sneaking out this morning without eating any breakfast or taking your pills! Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"
He grimaced and shifted uncomfortably, very much aware of the disapproving glare Hawkeye was aiming his way.
"I didn't sneak! And I took my antibiotics- I don't need the others. Besides, I wasn't hungry and milk is-"
Winry leaned forward, finger jabbing towards his face for emphasis.
"Don't give me that! I'm not stupid, Ed- and neither are the doctors! You're going to take every single pill here and then you're going to eat your breakfast. And if there's even one drop of milk left, I'll pour another glass and force it down your throat myself."
He cringed and resorted to his trump card: whining and being as annoying as humanly possible until he got his way.
"But Winry! The bastard is here! And I don't need them. Look, I'm fine, it doesn't even hurt! And it's almost lunchtime! I wanted stew. Stew. Al, tell Winry to make stew. I want stew!"
She huffed in disgust and swatted his hand away, Alphonse calling out a distracted affirmative before returning to his own conversation.
"Stop poking your bandages, Ed. You're such a child sometimes. And I'm not leaving this spot until every pill is gone."
He blinked and stared at her, an ingratiating grin spreading across his face.
"Stew?"
She crossed her arms, an angry blush flushing her skin.
"You're such a brat! Fine, if you take your medicine and drink your milk, I'll make stew for lunch."
He gnawed at his lip, eying the items in question and preparing to bargain for all he was worth.
"I'll take everything but the opium and milk."
"Not happening. Your painkillers are non-negotiable."
"What if I take an extra anti-inflammatory and drink half the milk?"
"No. The doctor said no more than one anti-inflammatory pill every six hours."
He was getting desperate now. He really, really hated taking the opium.
"Half of one pill and half the milk."
"No."
"Half and all of the milk?"
"Edward, I believe she told you it was non-negotiable. I agree. You need a full dose of medication for it to be most effective."
He wailed, flinging his hand around in a suitably dramatic manner, not caring that he was making a fool of himself. Again.
"But Hawkeye, I don't want it to be effective!"
"Oh, for the love of-! One pill and all your milk or both with no milk at all. Pick your poison, Ed."
He considered his options and began popping pills and chugging milk before Winry could change her mind. As much as he hated the taste and feel of that white slime, semi-consciousness was infinitely preferable to total oblivion.
"Done. You promised me stew."
"So I did. Miss Hawkeye, will you and Colonel Mustang be staying for lunch?"
"We wouldn't want to impose. We're planning to pick something up on the way back."
"No, no, no! It's no trouble at all! We'd love to have you."
"Thank you, Winry. If the colonel agrees, I suppose we could stay."
At this point, the conversation was getting a bit...fuzzy around the edges and the small hole at the base of his glove was proving to be much more interesting than he would have thought possible. Everything was slowing down, voices fading into a pleasant background drone, tightly woven cloth dancing against his eyelids. He hummed quietly to himself, absent smile stretching up, rose-tinted glass falling easily in place.
The sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder startled him and made him cringe until he registered the familiar face and the arm connected to it. He thought Mustang looked a little worried. What a strange look on that smooth face of his. It was funny. The surprised look on his face slid away, replaced by a wide grin, childish snigger bubbling past his teeth. A cool hand barely brushed his forehead, sending him into convulsions, twisting away from the unfamiliar touch, but drawing his hazy gaze to the older man's face.
"Ful- Edward."
If he concentrated hard enough he could string together the jumble of humming syllables into actual words. Speaking was just a little harder though. Almost too hard. But he supposed he'd better answer. They never liked it when he didn't.
"Wha'?"
He sounded strange, even to his own ears. His syllables were running all together just like Mustang's were. This discovery delighted him, a louder burst of mirth exploding from his throat.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes."
He drew the word out, stretching it with pleasure. It was a good word, fun to say. He particularly liked the hissing sound. The air whistling through his mouth tickled his tongue.
"Are you sure? I didn't mean to startle you."
It took him a bit longer to grasp the meaning, the curious change of tone and pitch distracting him momentarily. He grinned and hummed in agreement, enjoying himself far too much to let something like that affect his mood.
Now he watched his face crease in confusion. He'd never seen that porcelain skin crinkle in such a way. He wondered if his did the same, folding up and wrinkling when he smiled or squinted or tensed his muscles.
"Edward, does this bother you?"
Mustang lifted his hand and carefully patted his shoulder, watching his face closely, trying to gauge clumsy reactions.
"No. This. Tickles."
He caught hold of the older man's hand and brushed it against the skin of his cheek, callused skin and shocked expression igniting another bout of laughter. Mustang pulled his hand away, mouth firm but eyes soft.
"Edward, I realize that you aren't thinking very clearly at the moment, but please try to restrain yourself. Do you understand?"
His smile faded a bit, eyebrows pulling together as he strung the words together, struggling to separate phrases from somber bass tones. He nodded deliberately, forcing himself to think through the statement.
"Good. Now I need you to do something for me. I need you to think back. Do you remember anyone touching you like that before? Anyone at all."
He squinted and cocked his head to the side, humming and scratching his nose idly as he searched through sluggish memory.
"You...an' Mom...an' Granny, sometimes...an' Teacher when I got sick...an' I think...Hawkeye?"
"No one else?"
"No. Don' think so."
"Good, good."
Mustang was frowning again and Edward quickly grew tired of watching his immobile face. It occurred to him that he had never been quite this close to his superior officer. He was warm. He could feel the heat from here. It was distracting. Very distracting. But he liked it. He hadn't been this close to anyone since...since...he couldn't even remember when. Probably since he and Al were little.
That reminded him...
"Hey."
The colonel didn't so much as look at him.
"Hey."
He drew the word out even longer this time, playing with his volume as well as the syllables, pouting as he called. But he still wasn't answered.
He huffed in annoyance and threw himself against the older man clumsily, knocking them both to the floor and falling ungracefully into his lap, looking up at the much more interesting expression he now sported, a mix of exasperated anger and surprise. He liked it. Maybe he should knock the colonel down more often.
"Edward! What do you think you're doing! Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
Instead of answering, he threw his fist backwards, tapping on the broad chest above him.
"Hey. 'S Al?"
"What?"
He banged more insistently, scowling and increasing his volume.
"'S Al?"
"He's escorting the ladies to the market. Don't you remember?"
"Oh."
His brow furrowed, vaguely registering the uncomfortable shift as Mustang bent towards his face.
"Edward...does this happen often? Forgetting things and...losing track of what's around you?"
He froze, amber darting to meet ebony.
"Alphonse told me that he's worried about you. He said that you haven't been acting quite like yourself."
He licked his lips nervously.
"Not true."
"He also said that you refuse to talk to him-or anyone else- about it."
"Doesn' need t' know."
He muttered it under his breath, not realizing he'd said anything at all until his superior spoke with a voice that could cut glass.
"So it is true. And what else do you think that we don't need to know?"
"Nothin'!"
He nearly tripped over his tongue in the effort to get the word out, throwing himself forwards in an effort to put some distance between them, only to be foiled by his own weakness and Mustang's restraining hand against his torso.
"Edward."
Another warning. This time he sounded like he could bite nails in two.
"'S nothin'! Not 'portant! 'M fine, 'm fine!"
"If it's bothering you that much, it's obviously not 'nothing.' And I think I can judge for myself what is important and what is not. Out with it."
He struggled to pull his brain together, sensing that this was not a conversation he wanted to have.
Apparently, he was taking longer than that bastard thought he should.
"Edward, if you think-"
He cut in desperately, hand clutching at his head and eyes screwed close, trying to think through the fog in his mind, hoping to pull some magical, genius idea out of the scrambled mess that would fix everything. Or at least shut everyone up long enough to get his head on straight again.
"Wai', wai', wai', wai', wai'! I jus', I, I dunno, I...!"
The old man sighed.
"Alright, alright. Slow down, Edward. I'm just trying to help. Let's take a step back and calm down for awhile."
He opened his eyes, staring up in panic at the much larger male. He could feel himself starting to hyperventilate, but he'd finally managed to get a vague idea of what exactly was bothering him so much and he wasn't about to lose that again.
"Trade."
"What?"
"I tell you, you tell me, an' nob'dy tells Al!"
"Edward, I-"
"Don' tell 'im. Swear you won'."
"I don't know-"
"Swear."
"I can't just-"
"Swear."
"I'm not go-"
"Please."
Mustang stopped at that, a frown of frustrated indecision wrinkling his face once more. He grabbed a fistful of uniform, twisting it in his grasp, a desperate whisper gasping from his throat.
"Please. Jus' 'is once...swear."
The colonel shut his eyes and exhaled slowly.
"Just this once, Edward. Just this once."
He went limp, laughing quietly in sheer relief. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to compose himself, realizing with peculiar detachment that although his near panic attack had certainly cleared his mind, it had also hastened the arrival of the overwhelming desire- no, need to sleep that always overcame him when he took his 'medicine.' He would have to be quick if he wanted answers.
"I can' remember. An' it hurts. An' I don' care. An' I don' know why. Bu' I think you do."
He could see his hesitation, could hear the barest note of strain in his voice, could even feel the tightening of muscle and skin through starched uniform.
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean. Your medication should be taking care of any pain you have. As for the rest, I am certain that I informed you that we were never able to find out exactly what took place or why. And as you yourself have made it very clear that you remember little to nothing about the entire fiasco, I'm afraid that is simply that."
Copper bore into charcoal, hushed voice and dispassionate expression not revealing the growing struggle to keep eyelids from drooping.
"Liar. Tell me."
"Things aren't that simple, Edward. There are things that I can't- and won't- tell you. Things that you shouldn't have to know. You'll simply have to trust me."
"Somethin' happened t' me, Bas'ard. I wan'- I need t' know wha'. T' know why."
A heart-felt sigh, a reluctant pause, and the colonel finally spoke.
"Edward...I can't tell you everything. I can only hope you'll be satisfied with what you hear now. This...fight you had with the late Ms Arabela is much bigger than the two of you. Suffice it to say that affairs during The War led Ms Arabela to believe that the military was responsible for the disappearance of someone very dear to her. A series of unfortunate events led her to you and- for some inexplicable reason- decided to make you pay for her past. Anything beyond that is classified."
His eyelids were growing unbearably heavy, his mind swimming, no- sinking.
"'S my life, Bas'ard. Need t' know wha' she did'a me...why I di'n' care...when she..."
He growled in frustration and bit down on the inside of his cheek until he could feel a dull ache and slow gush of blood. Sleep was not an option.
"You...Has it really affected you so much? So much that you can't even accept the word of your commanding officer and just move on?"
He only tightened his mouth, clamping lips shut, grinding teeth against the skin of his cheek, staring the colonel down.
This much. It means this much. I'll even bleed for it. And Al will never have to know.
And again it seemed he'd won the contest of wills, the darker man slumping forward, laughing quietly and muttering about idiots. He sobered and returned Edward stare for stare, tapping a single finger against the younger male's forehead for emphasis.
"It's simple. You underestimated her and she took you. And since you didn't have the sense to bring your brother along, we almost didn't know what happened. I'd say anything going on with you right now is only to be expected, so forget about it and take your medicine like a good boy. You caused a lot of trouble for us and got yourself in so deep you almost couldn't get out again."
'...she took you.'
Ah- he was right. It was different. Not just a fight. He knew now. Taken. It wouldn't happen again. He'd be prepared. They wouldn't...be separated again. It was alright now...he could...sleep.
A self-satisfied smirk, gurgled laugh at Mustang's expense...and he slept.
AN: Sorry about the wait folks. I've been meaning to do this for a while, but never quite got around to it. I've already shared this information with some of you through PMs, but figured I'd finally go ahead and post it for everyone to read. Below is the description of Ed's true condition as of this chapter and the healing process that will eventually take place.
MENTAL SOUVENIERS: Edward suffers with a mild to moderate case of PTSD. His symptoms usually show up when he's not fully in control of himself- most notably when he's on his medication or under stress- thus his reaction to Roy's touch. Truth is, being touched makes him uneasy, but he doesn't realize that because it's not something he's *ever* been used to. He pretty much accepts it as par for the course at this point. The same is true of his other symptoms like paranoia, mini flashbacks, etc.
AUTOMAIL ARM: Ed's arm was completely destroyed. His current arm is a much lighter skeletal model. It's one of the lightest and most responsive models available and is usually used on patients that are recovering from automail surgery and are learning to use the connecting nerves properly. The short circuit did damage his nerves a little, but not irreparably. Some of his finer motor control was lost, but that's not much of an issue because he already prefers to use his flesh hand for more precision and tactile feedback. Once the skin around his port heals (some of which is actually from a skin graft) and he regains some muscle/weight, he'll upgrade to a model closer to average. Once he's back at full health he'll be given a final upgrade and be right back where he started.
FLESH LEG: That last spike severed a tendon in his lower leg, forcing the doctors to do some invasive surgery to reattach it. At the time of the last chapter, most of the stitches have been taken out & his calf and ankle are wrapped tightly in pressure bandages. Ed is supposed to stay off of his leg as much as possible, thus the wheelchair and cane. When it finally finishes healing, Ed will be left with a rather long and interesting scar as well as a slight limp, almost unnoticeable if you aren't looking for it.