Chapter Text
Three days after the eclipse, Ed’s cheeks were still aching from the force of his smile. He hadn’t been this happy in months – hell, he might not have been this happy since he and Al had tried to bring their mother back.
He leaned against Al’s hospital bed and absently did a head count.
Mustang and Hawkeye, each in a hospital bed of their own. Havoc in his wheelchair by the window, smoking and watching the room. Falman and Breda and Fuery. Hughes wasn’t here; he was handling the bulk of the political fallout, bribing loudmouths and cajoling high-ranking suckers into standing by Mustang. But there was Izumi and Sig, Izumi keeping Al entertained with one of her gentler smiles.
One little brother, scrawny and papery white, with a beaming grin that had only left his face when he slept. Ed didn’t think he’d ever get tired of seeing Al’s burnished bronze eyes, right back where they belonged.
No Hohenheim, obviously.
But Havoc and Breda had snuck in a bunch of take-out, good greasy stuff that was by far the best food Ed had eaten in days. Al hadn’t managed more than a small plate of french fries, but even that much had had him over the moon, savoring every one of them with enough relish to fill the room. Ed graciously split a chicken tender with him and devoured the burger that Breda had brought too – the man knew him well.
“Well done,” Izumi praised warmly, making Al beam at her. “Why don’t we try jackstones for a while? That should whip your fine motor control right into shape.”
“Actually, I’m getting kind of tired, teacher,” Al said sheepishly, cocking his head with a sweet smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Can we finish when I wake up?”
Shit, thank God, Ed thought, and then immediately felt bad about it.
Izumi melted, which was pretty unlike her, but Ed suspected they’d all be melting for Al for a good long while. He couldn’t wait to see Winry hug Al tomorrow. “Of course, Al.”
Al beamed, and then promptly snuggled down into the soft blankets that had also been procured for him. He was asleep in moments; he’d been worried at first that he didn’t remember how to get to sleep, but it turned out that he was wearing out so easily that his body was doing all the heavy lifting for him.
Ed watched him for a while. Al’s chest rose and fell in rhythm, and the rest of the room quieted a little in deference to his desire. Even in sleep, his face was still the picture of contentment.
When he was sure Al was really asleep, Ed stood up. His metal arm yanked at his collarbone and shoulderblade with the movement, making him clench his jaw.
“Where are you going, Fullmetal?” Mustang demanded immediately, because he was a freak and apparently knew it was him that’d stood up from the sound of his feet or something.
“I’m taking a piss, calm down,” Ed muttered, turning away to head out the door.
No one stopped him, and he exhaled, shut the door behind him, then sped up a little. Unfortunately, he knew the way out of the hospital by heart, and then again to the thin alley right next to it.
Ed hadn’t left Al’s side for more than sixty seconds since his brother had stumbled out of the door their father had opened for him. He didn’t regret a single fucking second of that, but earlier Fuery had accidentally hip-checked Ed on his way through the room, and that was it. That was the end of Ed’s rope.
Three days. He’d made it three fucking days.
There was a convenient gap between two large wooden crates, and he shoved them far enough apart that he could slide in between them, sitting on the ground hard. Then he reached into his inside pocket and tossed a few things carelessly onto the ground in front of him. His hands were trembling, like the goddamn addict that he was, and he felt cold and nauseous.
Fucking withdrawal symptoms. They weren’t the worst part of going without, but they didn’t help either.
The right transmutation circle flickered through Ed’s mind without conscious thought, and he smacked his hands together and transmuted the contents of the pot before he’d even unscrewed the lid. He tossed the lid aside and grabbed the long hooked needle, stuck it into the pot, and spun it, collecting a small ball of the softened substance on the end. Both of his automail ports throbbed obnoxiously.
Fucking opium. Stupid goddamn tar bullshit. Why was this so complicated?
Ed set the pot of tar down carefully, picked up the dragon-shaped pipe Ling had given him, and scraped the opium into the bowl, then tossed the needle and grabbed the lighter. He was still flicking it impatiently when the sound of Mustang’s voice made him freeze.
“Why do I smell opium?” Mustang muttered.
Shit. Mustang must have followed him, and these days, where there was Mustang, there was always, always-
Ed looked up and met Hawkeye’s gaze, a pipe between his teeth and a lighter in his hand. Her eyes were wide, radiating genuine shock, and Ed swallowed, painfully aware of just how bad this looked.
“...Lieutenant Hawkeye,” he said lamely, and closed the lighter.
Hawkeye stared at him for a moment, and then turned away and pushed gently, seating Mustang on one of the crates while he frowned at the wall. Then she turned back and knelt down in front of Ed.
“Ed,” Hawkeye said, very quietly and without a trace of open judgement. Ed’s cheeks burned. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Ed snapped bitterly, and then decided fuck it, flicked the lighter open again, and brought it to the bowl. In for a penny... And Hawkeye was reaching for the pipe. His thigh twinged so hard his leg actually twitched, and panic flashed through him. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Hawkeye stopped, but she didn’t look away either, her sharp eyes as intent as ever, which meant that Ed got to feel horribly self-conscious as he finally inhaled, taking the opium smoke deep into his lungs. But then the ache, the ever-present weight of his automail ports, faded for the first time in at least a week, and Ed decided it was more than worth it. The bolts in his bones, the sore and straining muscles, the raw skin- all of it got wrapped in cotton.
He let it out, relaxing against the brickwork as a pleasant warmth flowed through him. Hawkeye still wasn’t speaking, so Ed decided to, staring down at the pipe. It was painted, blues and reds with the bowl set into a dragon’s snarling muzzle. Only time Ling had ever shown taste.
“People always talk about how bad the surgery is,” he told her, “but you never hear people mention how much it sucks to have fifty pounds of metal hanging off your body. Bolts in your bones.”
“It’s for pain,” Hawkeye said without inflection, still studying him like a puzzle. She kept glancing down at the pipe. A piece that didn’t fit.
Made sense. Ed didn’t like people knowing about the pain, and he definitely didn’t like them knowing what he’d do to get out of it, if he had to. “Yeah.”
“What’s happening?” Mustang asked sharply, turning toward them with his clouded eyes still lingering a few feet over their heads. “Hawkeye? What’s Fullmetal doing? Is there something wrong with his automail?”
Mustang was too panicky. Always thought there was something wrong with his team.
Ed flicked the lighter again, waited a little more patiently this time, and inhaled.
Hawkeye was pursing her lips, obviously conflicted, and Ed gave her a nod, giving in to the inevitable. The only reason Mustang hadn’t figured it out already was probably because Ed didn’t do a lot of... this sort of thing. The comfort thing. Mustang liked people to play into his expectations.
“Edward came out to smoke opium,” Hawkeye said at last, and she still looked gentle, weirdly, which wasn’t a reaction Ed would’ve expected from the strictly disciplined lieutenant. “He says it helps with the pain from his automail.”
“That’s what they all say,” Mustang said immediately – it was clearly a reflexive response, because he looked instantly guilty, but it still made Ed wince and look away. Mustang’s next words were more interrogative, his head turning to search for Ed in the darkness. “Fullmetal? Did something happen?”
Ed exhaled, frustrated. “It’s fine. Fuery bumped into me earlier, made it worse for a little while. It’s not a big deal.” Flick, pause, breathe, hold. God, that was perfect. A more pleasant shiver ran down his spine, his taut muscles unwinding. “Haven’t gotten a chance to smoke this week. You know what kind of fucking week it’s been.”
Homunculi, Father, busybody generals, cleanup, Al- God, Al.
He flicked the lighter a couple of times without bringing it to the bowl, eying the pipe consideringly.
“That’s enough, Ed,” Hawkeye said quietly. Ed nodded vaguely.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he sighed, and used the needle to grab what was left and scrape it back into the pot. The implements went back into his coat, one by one, and then he leaned back against the wall again.
There were a few moments of stifling silence.
“I’m surprised,” Hawkeye said at last, still careful, “that you didn’t refrain from... this, until after you restored Al’s body. That seems to be your approach with most luxuries.”
Ed snorted, bitterness flashing hotly through him. Hawkeye was treading lightly, but the thing was, she didn’t get it. Not like Al would, if he found out.
“You think I didn’t try?” he demanded, letting his eyes fall shut so he didn’t have to see their stupid faces. “Winry had me on laudanum the whole time I was in rehab, but I didn’t take any with me. Promised myself I wouldn’t do a damn thing for the pain until Al had his body back.” He bumped his head irritably against the brick wall behind him. “Didn’t last six months. I couldn’t sleep, read, run- after a while I couldn’t string three thoughts together, made it hell trying to get anything done.” He paused. “You might remember, actually. The stupid parade drills.”
“You flunked so badly that I assumed you were doing it on purpose,” Mustang agreed immediately, because of course he really did remember. His mouth even creased into a small smirk, and his eyes danced like the Gate hadn’t taken anything from them at all.
“Yeah,” Ed agreed, feeling indulgent. “Forgot the forms as soon as the sergeant explained ‘em. That’s not an invitation for you to try again, by the way. Next time it will be on purpose.”
Mustang snorted. The sound made Ed relax a little. “I’d expect nothing less.” Pause. “Al told me that you never screamed during your surgery. Your pain tolerance must be exceptional.”
There was question in his voice, but no judgement, at least not that he let Ed hear. Unusual for him to let a compliment slip, too – the warm atmosphere of the hospital room must be getting to him. Ed huffed.
“And it’s true,” he snapped. “But that was only, fuck, a couple of hours, maybe half a day at most. I didn’t have to run errands or hold a conversation like that. I didn’t have to- shit, I didn’t have to sleep like that.”
He was rambling – saying too much. But dammit, he didn’t want them to think he was a doped-out junkie or something. He reached up to rub his forehead, irritated.
“Anyway, it’s not unbearable or anything,” he added, when neither of them moved to speak. “Just.” Maddening. “Fucking exhausting.” Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. You don’t fucking give Havoc that look when he’s lighting up a cigarette, do you? And I’ve seen him, he’s just as bad.”
Hawkeye stopped giving him the look. “Does Al know about this?”
“Hell no,” Ed said. “And he’s not gonna. He has enough to worry about.”
Because Al would get it, he knew. He’d been with Ed all the way from his wheelchair to his prosthetic and then all through his automail rehab, when he was relearning how to pick up a pen and change direction when he walked. He knew what storms were like for Ed, why he put his feet up every chance he got, how much Ed could bear before his stomach churned with nausea.
But Ed was- shit, fine, Ed was embarrassed. He hated that he couldn’t just tough it out like Al had to. He hated that he got a break when Al didn’t. He hated the way it made him feel like one of those low-life suckers that’d never fought for anything, or worse, who drank to forget. He just didn’t fucking want Al to know.
“Aren’t you taking Al home at the end of the week?” Hawkeye asked, lips pursed in concern again.
Despite himself, Ed broke into a grin. “Hell yeah! Al’s gonna be thrilled. Yeah.” It occurred to him that she was worried about- “Oh, I can take care of Al just fine. This is pretty normal for me. Not my fault you didn’t know about it.”
“It is entirely your fault,” Mustang said, but both him and Hawkeye had relaxed, apparently satisfied that nothing obnoxiously untoward was going on. “Fine. Make sure to contact someone if you need help.”
“Alright, Dad,” Ed chuckled, and pushed himself up to head back into the hospital.
It was still bothering Ed that he hadn’t really gotten to keep his promise to Al.
Oh, Al insisted that he had. That all that mattered was that Al was out of the armor, and most of them had come out alive, and the Gate was far behind them both.
But it hadn’t been Ed who really got Al his body back. It had been fucking Hohenheim, coming in at the eleventh hour as usual to trade what was left of himself for Al’s body, like some kind of goddamn martyr. Like now that he’d finished his business, he could finally pay attention long enough to solve all of their problems all by his own damn self.
Four years in the Amestrian military, and for what? Ed sighed.
In a way, he was kind of grateful for the time it was going to take Al to recover; it gave him time to figure out what the hell to do with himself. Searching for answers had taken up every waking thought since he’d woken up down two limbs and looked into Al’s glowing red eyes. After all that, how was he supposed to think of anything else? And how much longer would Al stay by him?
He tried not to let the thought haunt him. It kind of did anyway. Maybe that was why he was so determined to take care of Al by himself for as long as Al needed it – he was regretting that a bit now, though not nearly enough to back out.
Winry and Pinako had stayed for the first couple days, helping get Al settled in after he was released from the hospital – it was a shame they hadn’t been able to come sooner or stay longer, but their patient schedule had been hell lately. Ed grinned at nothing, a flicker of a smile. They deserved the business.
They’d been so fucking happy to see Al himself again.
Tiredly, Ed fiddled with the dial on the radio until it landed on some drama about aliens, then set his head in his arms and closed his eyes, following along halfheartedly. After another minute, he rolled over and stretched out with a grunt.
The problem was, on his own, it was harder to keep up with Al than Ed had thought it’d be. Al was a joy, obviously, and he deserved every minute of excitement that he milked out of his waking hours. Ed was just used to having more time to fuck around and take his weight off his automail. His thigh was starting to feel more than a little tender, and it definitely didn’t help that that was the side he always put Al on when he helped his little brother walk around.
Which, it turned out, was nearly every minute that the boy was awake, because Al loved touching things. Of course he did; he was refamiliarizing himself with the more tactile aspects of the world, and clearly loving every second of it. Ed was honestly delighted to see how happy he was. He’d walk Al around all day if he could, but...
Ed twisted in place, grimacing as he pulled his left leg into a position that put less stress on it. Funny how quickly discomfort multiplied.
Ed probably just needed to adjust, though. Give him a few more days, and he’d be able to keep up with Al and then some.
A knock on the door made Ed jump, and he turned to glance over at the door. “It’s open!” he called out, and reluctantly pushed himself upright, left leg still thrown out over the cushions.
“It’s me, boss!” Havoc called back.
“It’s open!” Ed repeated, annoyed. He knew Havoc could get through doors, and the military dorm’s weren’t heavy enough to make it hard.
A moment passed, and then the door burst open, just short of hard enough to bounce against the wall. Havoc pushed himself inside, muttering darkly, with a brown paper bag on his lap. It was like he was trying to look shady. He wheeled over and came to a halt just within reach. His eyebrows rose when he saw what position Ed was in.
“That bad?” Havoc asked, bemused, and passed the bag to Ed.
“Shut up,” Ed muttered. He reached into the bag and pulled out the contents – a tiny terracotta pot, tightly sealed. He popped it open and huffed at the faint, sweet scent of opium. “Thanks.”
Havoc had actually known about Ed’s habit before Mustang and Hawkeye had found out. He’d discovered it in pretty much the same way, too, running into Ed red-handed, and it had taken more than a bit of insistence to keep him from telling the rest of the team.
He was also the one who’d insisted that Ed pick out a reliable, trustworthy dealer, and recommended one when Ed had complained.
“I’m not a delivery service, you’ll have to go and get it yourself next time,” Havoc informed him, and Ed snorted. “I’m actually serious. I’ll be out of town for a week, maybe two. Anyway, Madame Christmas says you owe her a visit.”
“God dammit,” Ed muttered, reaching up to rub his forehead. “Yeah, alright. I’ll find time. I’ve been going through it faster than usual.”
“What, really?” Havoc said, surprised. “I’d’ve thought it’d be the last thing on your mind, with how busy Al must keep you.”
“Fuck you,” Ed said without inflection, pocketing the little trinket. He caught Havoc glancing at his outstretched leg and put it firmly on the ground, scowling. His port twanged in protest. “Al’s been talking about wanting to visit the office, by the way. We might do that once he can stay out for longer.”
“The guys’ll be pleased,” Havoc said, apparently sincere. “Things have been hectic though, they might not be able to pay you much attention.”
Ed shrugged. “Whatever. Al will be happy just to see them.”
As if summoned, Al’s voice floated into the room. “Brother?”
Ed’s face split into a grin, and he hopped to his feet, barely wincing at the impact, and went straight for the cordoned-off bed, where Al was already struggling upright, eager to get going.
Al had put on weight since the Gate had spat him out; he didn’t look healthy yet, but he almost looked normal-skinny now, not five-years-emaciated. He’d cut his hair to his chin, undecided on whether to commit to his childhood undercut, and his eyes always sparkled with an eagerness that said he was still riding the high of being back in his own body. As he damn well should be.
Ed stopped by the bed, offering his flesh arm for Al to grasp as he got to his feet. Al thumped to the ground, and his gait stayed at his characteristic wobbly waddle on the way to the couch. His weight on Ed’s arm shifted and wavered as Al struggled for balance, his core muscles not yet built up enough to keep him steady. Ed’s smile tightened. His leg was not enjoying the extra work.
He led Al over to the couch and the boy dropped into it with a pleased giggle, leaving Ed free to sit beside him.
“Good, um, afternoon, Havoc,” Al greeted, looking curiously over him. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay at the office?”
“Everything’s fine,” Havoc dismissed, relaxing back into his chair to eye Al speculatively. It quickly melted into fondness. “Colonel’s even doing his paperwork for once. Breda’s taking bets about how long that’ll last.”
Ed snorted. “Fifteen hundred cens that he’ll throw in the towel by the end of the month.”
“You’ll have to take that to Breda,” Havoc informed him, but he was grinning. “Hey, you boys want to go out to lunch? I know a place right around the corner, you won’t have to go far. Better than the cafeteria by a mile.”
“Absolutely!” Al said enthusiastically, and then they were on their feet again.