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Ed looks up and sees him.
“Oh fuck,” he says, with a mouth full of smoke.
Oh fuck, indeed. Ed exhales through his mouth and nose with--Roy notes--practiced expertise, and places the pipe and lighter gingerly on the patio table.
“Am I, uh, in trouble?”
It’s a good question. Roy drops into the chair across from him. It’s not like this is the worst thing he could stumble upon coming home early from the gym. He smoked his fair share of pot when he was a teenager, after all, and still partakes occasionally when insomnia rears its ugly head. But objectively, a Good Parent would not stand for their teenage son doing drugs in the house, so how can Roy? He reaches up to massage his temples.
“Do you have a reason I shouldn’t ground you?”
Ed’s eyes are bloodshot, and come to think of it, it’s not the first time Roy’s seen the kid’s eyes looking like that. Which means the brat has been smoking under his nose this whole time. Some parent he is. Ed at least has the decency to look guilty and caught out.
“It’s not what you think. I don’t just do it for fun.” Ed rubs his neck gingerly, angrily, even, and he spits out the next words like they’re painful. “It’s for my leg.”
Roy stares at him. Well, that is a good reason.
“It’s been hurting you?”
Ed shrugs. “Sometimes. Usually it’s not too bad.”
“But not always.” Roy finishes for him. How is he supposed to punish the kid now? Being ex-military, he knows plenty of vets who manage their chronic pain in similar--or worse--ways. And how the hell has he not thought about the fact that a missing limb would cause pain, no matter how hard Ed tries to act like he isn’t disabled?
Not for the first time since this whole process began, he feels like a failure.
“Look, I know what you’re going to say,” Ed starts up, and Roy wants to laugh because really, he doesn’t. “But when I first lost my leg they were giving me all kinds of painkillers. Vicodin, Oxy, you name it. And they were like ‘yeah just take it whenever it hurts,’ like I don’t know how that ends up.” Ed’s eyes flash. “At least weed’s a plant, and it’s not as addictive as that other stuff. And I don’t just smoke whenever I want. I have rules. I’m not like him,” Ed finishes defiantly.
“I don’t think you are,” Roy reassures. He doesn’t have to ask who the him in question is. Did Hoenheim’s substance abuse problems start with a prescription, like so many do? He can imagine Ed’s ashamed to take anything at all for the pain, which is probably worse than the kid lets on.
He taps the pipe on the patio table.
“So, what are your rules?”
Ed eyes him suspiciously. Roy sighs.
“If you want to get away with smoking pot under my nose, make your case.”
Ed snorts. “First of all, no one calls it ‘pot’ anymore. It’s not the seventies. It’s weed. And I only ever smoke if I’m in pain. Like, real pain. Not, like,‘take an advil’ pain. I always try taking an advil. And never more than once a day. Never two days in a row. Never in front of Al.”
“Does he know?”
Ed shakes his head.
“He’s probably smelled it on you.”
“You didn’t.”
Good point. Roy considers this. What’s he supposed to do, say “no more smoking, just deal with the pain, tough shit?” He wants to call up Maes, get his take. What would he think if it were Elicia? He’d lose his shit, probably, Roy answers himself. God, he’s a terrible parent. But what are the options here?
“Okay, new rules. You want to smoke, you do it out in the open. No hiding, no sneaking around. If you’re being responsible, we’ll consider it responsible.” His voice softens. “You can let us know when you’re in pain, Ed. And if there’s anything we can do to help.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ed rubs his eye, decidedly avoiding Roy’s own.
“Two, start taking edibles. You’re going to give yourself cancer smoking all the time.”
“Where am I supposed to get edibles? I buy this shit from some guy in the marching band.”
“You’re a good chemist. Make them.”
Ed stares. “You’re serious.”
“I have to run this all by Riza first, but provided she agrees, yes.”
“Isn’t this, like, bad parenting?”
“Probably?” Roy sighs, staring up at the April sky which threatens rain. “If I wanted to stop you, would you even listen to me?”
Ed doesn’t say anything, which is answer enough.
“Look, Ed, you’re sixteen. You’ve dealt with more than most forty-year-olds I know, and I’m a veteran. If you say you need this for your pain, and you’ll use it responsibly, I trust you. But--” He holds up a finger. “--that doesn’t mean I want you dealing with it on your own, unchecked. I’d much rather you were up front with me. And if I have concerns, we’ll talk. Deal?”
Riza will punch sense into me if this is a huge mistake, Roy thinks desperately. Why isn’t there a manual for this shit? Well, every parent under the sun has probably thought that, but what about when your kids come to you as teenagers, orphaned, fucked up from the foster care system, with PTSD and trauma and only each other to count on?
I don’t want to be another adult who fails you, Ed. Tell me what to do here. But he can’t, because Ed’s the kid, and he, Roy is the adult, and there are no rules, or even guidelines for this situation. Roy’s got to learn as he goes, and pray he isn’t making mistake after mistake.
“How’s your pain now?” he asks.
“Better now,” Ed says. He looks up at the sky. “It gets worse when the weather is bad. Inflammation, or some shit.”
Roy files that information away for future reference.
“How about some dinner then? We could go get McDonald’s?”
Ed gives him a scathing look. “I’m stoned but not that stoned.”
“You’d love some McDonald’s right now, admit it.”
Ed pushes the deck chair back and saunters through the sliding door. “ You suggested it. Don’t forget.”
Roy follows his son into the house, already cataloging the things he wants to pick up from the drugstore on the way home. A heating pad, extra pain killers, chocolate? Chocolate is always good. One thing he is sure of--Ed isn't going to deal with his pain alone anymore.