Work Text:
Ed flinched awake at the shrill ring of a doorbell. He made a small, distressed noise, burrowing further into the cocoon of softness and warmth that enveloped his aching body.
The sound caught on his throat’s swollen inner walls, prompting another, even more pathetic noise to squeeze free.
His head was fucking killing him. Pounding. Like something was attempting to hatch from within, feasting on his actual brain matter and leaving him stupid and helpless.
He didn’t like this.
“Ma? What are you doing here?”
His clumped, crusted lashes fluttered as his tight brow relaxed.
Ed knew that voice. Low. Smooth. He trusted that voice. He was safe.
Another voice responded, this one female, older. It sounded a bit like Granny after she finished smoking a pipe.
“What a nonsense question, boy. I’m here to see you.”
Yes. A rough voice. Raspy and worn. But kind.
He wondered who it belonged to, but his curiosity was no match for the bone deep exhaustion weighting his lids down, and he dozed back off without another sound.
Roy heaved a sigh as he stepped aside to let his mother in and closed the door behind her.
“While I appreciate the sentiment-” That was as far as he got before she spotted his little predicament–emphasis on little.
“Who’s this, then?” she said, studying the tiny heap of blankets and misery curled up on his couch with open interest, a slight crease of concern between furrowed brows.
Roy shoved his hands into his pants pockets and wandered over to join her.
“This is Ed. He took a dip into the river the other day, and here we are,” he said, and his mother turned to regard him with one of those looks he had never, and probably would never, be able to decipher.
Despite her open and well-deserved distaste for them, that woman was a politician at heart.
“This is your little menace?”
Something in Roy’s chest gave a solid tug at her wording, but he ignored it.
“That’s him. The Fullmetal Alchemist, in the flesh.” He sighed and raised a hand to drag his fingers through already mussed hair, his eyes automatically ticking back down to what little was visible of Ed’s flushed features beneath the blankets. Cold sweat stood on his brow, and dried tears clung to light lashes.
He tore himself away and made for the kitchenette, where he wetted the still damp rag he had abandoned earlier after Ed had tossed the thing away for the fifth time.
His mother watched quietly. Absorbed his actions and formed a quick–and, unfortunately, accurate–judgement.
There’d never been much sense in trying to hide anything from her.
Roy returned with the cool cloth and carefully settled next to the kid on the couch, wiping his sweaty brow and the bridge of his nose.
Ed stirred but didn’t wake, and his mother spoke.
“So, you are capable of caring for other people. You’ll need to come up with a new excuse for why you refuse to give me grandkids.”
The words pierced the fog, though his being-devoured-by-the-chick-incubating-in-his-head-brain couldn’t make much sense of them.
“Ma.” The nice, smooth voice responded, carrying a tone of warning and disapproval Ed was very familiar with.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, Roy-boy. Look at you, discovering your paternal instincts-”
“The only thing I’m discovering right now is that maybe I shouldn’t have let you in,” the voice cut in with a sort of tightness Ed also recognised.
There was a huff Ed couldn’t interpret. It might have been laughter, or hurt, but whatever the reaction aimed to convey, it was lost to him–unlike the meaning of the words that preceded it.
Through monumental effort, Ed managed to crack his stinging eyes open.
He blinked against the dim light, attempting to make sense of the blurry shapes before him, until his slowed and murky thoughts finally registered the dip in the cushions at his hip.
Ed directed his squinted gaze there, followed by a weak little nudge of his knee that was supposed to be a kick but never got there.
“Be- be nice to your mom! One day she’ll-” He was interrupted by a bout of painful, wheezing coughs that rattled his congested chest, and he curled tighter into himself. “She- she’ll die, and then you won’t have a mom anymore, so be nice to her!”
A beat of heavy silence followed, in which Ed pulled the covers up to his ear and sniffled softly. His throat was on fire, and his eyes swam with heated moisture.
He missed his mama. Now especially. He was sick as a dog, unable to do anything on his own, and his mind wandered back to the times he had been ill as a child, when there’d been someone who cared for him.
He still had Al, of course, but Al was his little brother, and he shouldn’t have to take care of Ed. Ed should take care of him, but he was soft and weak in a way he’d taken from his baby brother.
Mom had taken care of both of them when they were little, especially when they were ill. They’d usually been sick together, Al and he; they’d been glued at the hip, even then, and one of them always ended up infecting the other, no matter what measures Mom took to quarantine them.
She’d made them soup and brought them tea and even read alchemy books to them, sometimes, when they’d been really miserable. She had stumbled over some words, but neither Ed nor Al had minded much.
“Sorry, kid.” The words were quieter now. A hand settled at the side of his head, smoothing back sweat-matted hair, and the sensation tightened the heavy knot in his chest.
Still, the gentle petting helped calm him until his lids grew so heavy they seemed glued shut.
The kid’s breathing evened out, and Roy let out a soft exhale and adjusted the covers around his slight form, tucking them in tight.
“He’s too young, Roy,” Ma said after a long, uneasy pause, all humour and teasing drained from her tone.
“He’s older than he used to be,” he replied, taking care to keep the unearned bitterness from his voice. The image of a tiny twelve year old Ed with baby fat and ancient eyes wormed itself to the forefront of his mind, and he raised his head to meet his mother’s gaze. “He’s strong. Stronger than it seems.”
She stayed silent, and Roy imagined he could feel her disapproval like the heat that rolled off an open flame.
“I’ve got a good whiskey and a decent rum,” he said, because Ed had been shivering and mewling like a wounded kitten on his couch since the early hours of the morning, when a distraught suit of armour with the tinny voice of a child had rung his doorbell until Roy had basically fallen out of bed and groggily accepted the sweating and miserable bundle thrust into his arms–he had no mind for conversations like this right now, and he desperately yearned for a stiff drink.
“It’s half past three in the afternoon,” she said, a slight quirk to her brow, and Roy stood with a barely exaggerated groan, taking a moment to stretch before heading for the liquor cabinet.
“Whiskey neat?”
“Attaboy.”
A tired smile tugged at his lips as he retrieved the tumblers and bottle and returned to set them down on the low coffee table. It was the only table he owned, and he got it solely because he couldn’t be arsed to purchase a dining table but still needed somewhere to eat dinner on occasion.
Riza had given him a look when he’d told her this, one that had made it very clear she’d wanted to call him pathetic but deemed it a waste of breath to say the words.
She had a proper dining table. He thought it would fit perfectly into the space where his living room turned kitchenette.
Roy poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass and handed one over to his mother, who had settled into his one lone armchair. He sat back down on the edge of the couch, careful not to disturb his sleeping miniature headache.
The kid needed the rest.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and Roy got lost in the amber hues of the whiskey in his glass, thinking of something else entirely.
“...heard from you in a while...”
Ed faded into an approximation of wakefulness, or a space somewhere near it.
His throat ached. His eyes ached. His head ached. His stumps... ached.
He ached.
“I know. I’ve been busy.”
Busy. Ed was busy. Or he should be. Too tired to be busy right now. Too busy being tired?
“Too busy to call your frail old mother?”
Laughter. He liked that sound.
“You might be old, but you’re far from frail.”
“Tch. Who raised you to speak to a lady like that?”
A snort, and then, quiet.
The tip of Ed’s nose was freezing. He tucked it underneath the soft blanket and settled again, mind slow and syrupy, dripping like honey. Oblivion called to him, and he was too weak to resist it.
“How is that pretty sniper of yours doing?”
That slowed Ed’s descent into unconsciousness. Pretty sniper. He knew a pretty sniper. She was always nice to them, and she enjoyed talking to Alphonse, and Ed liked watching her scold the Colonel.
What a ridiculous word that was. Colonel. Incorrect letters all around.
“She’s fine. Busy.”
Ed was busy. But mostly, he was tired.
“Mh. You should bring her around more often.” The raspy, almost rough voice softened with something that warmed his frigid core.
A huffed breath that might have been a chuckle.
“You know I can’t. People are already talking.”
An odd sensation started up behind his forehead. His mind spun, a disorienting sense of dizziness that made him sick even though he knew he was laying down, knew he wasn’t moving at all. He squeezed his closed eyes shut tighter. The strain of the movement made his head throb. He shivered miserably.
“Isn’t that the whole point, kid? They’re supposed to think you’re a useless man-whore, no?”
There was a tickle at the base of his swollen throat, a fledgling of laughter too weak to make it anywhere beyond that.
Useless man-whore. He thought that was a good match for Colonel.
“Yeah, a useless man-whore. A non-threat. Not a sleazebag suspected of fucking around with his direct subordinates.” A sigh, the sound almost as tired as Ed felt. “I can’t afford to get court-martialled.” He paused, and a gentle trickle of liquid reached his ears that made him realise how sandpapery his tongue was against the roof of his mouth.
“...and I can’t afford to have her transferred.”
His mother regarded him with another one of her looks, swirling her whiskey in pensive silence. Roy raised his own freshly refilled glass to his lips and almost choked when she next spoke.
“God, you’re down bad, boy.”
He sputtered and set his tumbler down hard on the coffee table, whiskey splashing over his fingers.
“Ma!”
She leaned back in the armchair, a low, raspy chuckle rumbling in her chest.
“You’re blushing,” she remarked, and Roy threw his hands up and stood, stomping into the kitchen and snatching a rag to wipe up the little puddle of liquor before it stained.
His mother watched, and when Roy raised his head again, her bemused expression had withered away to something he rarely saw on her–concern. Veering towards pity, even.
“I wish it could be different for you, kiddo. You deserve to be happy. And I can see how happy she makes you, even... like this.”
Roy forced his face to go blank, even though he knew she could see straight through him. She was the one who taught him his pokerface, after all.
He straightened back up and returned to the kitchen to rinse the cloth, watching his hands move without seeing much of anything.
The water did nothing. The blood and ash that crusted his fingers didn’t budge.
He didn’t deserve anything, and least of all happiness, least of all Riza. Not after everything he’d done, everything he’d become.
Though he couldn’t fault his mother for the sentiment. He could relate, in a way.
He wished for Riza to be happy, too, despite all the things he knew she had done.
Roy draped the clean rag over the faucet and filled a glass with water. He didn’t respond to his mother, not with words, but unfortunately the woman understood the cadence of his silence well enough.
The full glass joined the whiskey tumbler on the coffee table, and Roy carefully gripped Ed’s shoulder, hidden beneath every spare blanket he had managed to scrounge up, attempting to wake him without startling him.
Dull golden eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy, and Roy shoved aside the growing twinge of concern rooted firmly between his ribs.
“Come on, pipsqueak. Up,” he said softly and shifted to wrap his arm around his shoulders, scooping the kid up into a sitting position. He let out a huff, the weight of the automail straining his back. Fuck, he was getting old.
Ed blinked slowly. The pile of blankets slipped, revealing ratty, sweat stained clothes and trembling limbs.
“Good grief,” Ma said, studying the kid’s small form, the corners of her mouth downturned with concern. “Are you sure that boy shouldn’t be in the hospital?”
Roy sighed, one arm wrapped firmly around Ed to keep him upright as he reached for the glass and brought it to dry, chapped lips with the other.
“Come on, you need fluids,” he said to Ed when the boy didn’t immediately accept the water. His automail hand came up, finally, to take the glass from him–those iron fingers were steady, unlike the rest of his body. “He doesn’t do well with hospitals,” he finally replied without taking his eyes off the kid.
Ed shivered pitifully. Every sip of water made him shake harder, and Roy’s brow furrowed.
“...’s cold,” Ed rasped. Roy’s ribcage tightened further.
“Shit, kid.” He grabbed a couple of the crumpled blankets surrounding Ed and yanked them up around his shoulders, bringing his free hand up to feel Ed’s sweaty forehead. “Shit.”
His mother rose from her chair and pressed her own hand to the spot Roy’s vacated, the lines age had eaten into her face deepening as she frowned.
Ed closed his eyes, leaning into her cool touch even though she was a complete stranger to him. Roy let out a breath and gently took the half empty glass from Ed’s fingers, setting it down on the coffee table.
“Roy, you need to get his fever down. He’s burning up,” she said, and all of a sudden Roy was very glad for his mother’s presence.
“What do I do? Ice packs?”
Those two words alone made Ed whimper pathetically, and the kid drew the blankets tighter around himself, leaning heavily against Roy.
Ma thought for a moment, studying Ed’s ashy complexion.
“You have a bathtub, don’t you?”
Roy gave a firm nod and scooped Ed up in his arms before the kid’s cooked brain could comprehend the implication.
“I swear this is for your own good, kid,” he mumbled against matted hair as he shouldered the bathroom door open and entered, his mother trailing behind and flipping the light switch.
The ceiling light pinged on, and Ed flinched in his arms and buried his drawn face against Roy’s throat, whimpering.
“Shit, sorry- just try to hang in there.”
He carefully lowered the boy to the closed toilet lid and kneeled before him, hands gripping his shoulders to prevent him from face-planting into the bathroom tile. The water started up to his left, and Roy steeled himself and reached for the hem of Ed’s shirt, intending to pull it over his head.
“Arms up.”
Ed swayed, automail arm shooting out to catch himself on Roy’s shoulder, and he let out a hiss but didn’t comment. That would make a pretty bruise.
“What’re’ya-” the kid frowned down at Roy’s hands and swatted at them weakly with his flesh hand. “...buy me dinner first.”
Ma snorted at his back, while Roy’s expression slipped entirely.
He had to take a moment to process in pressing silence, his hands stilled.
“...never say that to me again.” And with that, he yanked his shirt up and over his head.
Ed made an in equal parts surprised and displeased squawk, and Roy had to steady him so he wouldn’t make the acquaintance of the floor after all.
“Ma,” he said over his shoulder, wrangling a feverish, half clothed fifteen year old, “could you go get him something of mine to wear? I’m not putting him back in these things.” He indicated the small pile of sweat-soaked black clothing Roy had flung away before Ed could make an uncoordinated grab for them.
“Of course. You boys have fun,” she said and departed the bathroom. Oh, how he wished that could be him.
He managed to yank the pants off Ed, leaving him in just his boxers, when he paused. Froze, really.
“Ed, what the fuck is that?” he said, attempting and failing to keep his voice smooth and unaffected.
He reached out, gently trailing his fingers along the reddened, inflamed flesh rimming the kid’s shoulder-port-site.
It pulsed with the rhythm of his heart, and Roy felt the blood rush from his face.
Ed, on the other hand, didn’t seem all too concerned.
“Hmmm. The metal. Gets real warm... hurts.”
“Hurts?” he echoed, voice cracking. Of course it hurt. The boy had hot metal embedded in his skin. “Shit, kid, why didn’t you say anything? That’s almost a first degree burn!”
Ed twitched his shoulders and winced almost as an afterthought.
“Happens.”
Roy’s gaze darkened, and his hand shot up to grip Ed by the chin, forcing the kid’s dazed eyes to meet his.
“Edward. Has it not occurred to your little genius brain that if there was one person who could help you with that, it would be me?”
Ed blinked slowly, the fever-rusted gears creaking and groaning behind his forehead.
“Ohh. Because of the fire,” he said, so earnest and stupid Roy didn’t even experience the usual urge to shake him.
“Yes,” he said, sighing, and released Ed’s jaw with a soft squeeze. “Because of the fire.”
Roy had nursed enough first and second degree burns during his earliest clumsy attempts at Flame Alchemy; if there was one thing he knew, it was how to treat a burn.
He heaved a sigh and gradually released Ed, pausing to make sure the kid would remain upright without support, before he turned away to shut off the water. The bathtub was decently full, and he dipped his hand to feel the temperature.
Cool, but not downright cold. Still, Ed wouldn’t enjoy this one bit.
“Alright, kiddo, in you go,” he said and pushed himself back to his feet, planting a hand between the kid’s shoulder blades and urging him towards the tub.
Ed strained against the gentle pressure, but still he wobbled dangerously.
“...don’t wanna.”
Roy swallowed back a groan, reminding himself to be patient. The boy wasn’t in his right mind, after all.
“Come on. You’re burning up. You’re a smart boy; you know what fever can do to a human body. That brilliant brain’s cooking in there as we speak.”
Ed didn’t budge–at least not consciously. He tipped his head back and stared up at him from wide, dull eyes, pleading like a puppy.
“’m cold...”
He heaved a sigh. “Ed...”
Ed just shook his head and nearly toppled off the toilet in his attempt to stand, and that was when Roy realised that there was even less sense in trying to appeal to the kid’s logical side right now than usual.
His brain literally didn’t work right.
“Alright, that’s it. Get in the fucking tub, Fullmetal,” he ordered, changing in his private persona Ed never listened to for the military commander he occasionally listened to.
The kid froze and lowered his head, hiding his face behind sweaty bangs.
“...no,” he said softly, voice breaking over the single syllable, and Roy had had enough.
He swooped down and gathered the kid back into his arms, ignoring his raspy protests and insufficient struggles.
The door creaked at his back, but Roy paid his mother no mind as he wrestled the kid down into the water. Ed hissed and struggled against him like a kitten refusing its first bath.
“Pull yourself together, Ed! You’ve been through way worse than a cold bath!” he gritted out, one eye squeezed shut against the splashing water, his sleeves he had neglected to roll up clinging wetly to his forearms as he held the boy down by his shoulders.
Ed made the most pitiful noises as he thrashed uselessly, flesh fingers grasping weakly at Roy’s wrist while their iron counterparts pressed an accidental ring of bruises into the tender skin.
He expected the kid to scream and yell and struggle until his sore throat gave out and he had spent what little energy he had, and he braced himself-
What he hadn’t expected, though, was for Ed to burst into tears.
Roy yanked his hands away as if burned and stared, wide eyed and stupefied.
The boy wept bitterly, knees pulled up as he shivered in the cold bath, his boxers clinging to ashy tan skin.
“Shit, did I hurt you-” he began and broke off, whipping around to stare up at his mother helplessly, not that she knew what to do any more than he did.
“I- I don’t wanna do hard things anymore... ‘m tired... I can’t...” Ed sobbed, and Roy turned back to him, all of a sudden sick to his stomach.
“Oh, kid...” He rose from his kneeling position next to the tub and perched himself on the edge of it instead, hands hovering uncertainly before one settled on Ed’s bowed head. “You’re breaking my fucking heart here...”
“Roy,” Ma said quietly, and her earlier words rung in his head like a bell in an empty church.
He’s too young.
He bit the tip of his tongue hard and let his hand slip down to Ed’s nape, gently pulling him closer. To his surprise, Ed let it happen, let him put his head in his lap as his free hand reached down to scoop cool water onto the kid’s inflamed shoulder.
“Shh, now. You’re going to be okay,” he murmured, softening his voice and petting Ed’s hair. He didn’t struggle, at least, though his shivering increased, and Roy’s chest hurt.
Ed’s shoulders shook with tremors and quiet, heartbreaking sobs, and Roy sat there, useless and overwhelmed, attempting to provide the kid some semblance of comfort as he forced him to remain in the cool water.
His mother’s voice was soft like Roy rarely heard it when she spoke. “I’ll see if I can throw together some soup with whatever you have in your kitchen.” She squeezed his shoulder, and Roy swallowed hard.
“Thanks, Ma.”
Ed cried softly against his thigh, hiccupping and coughing.
Fuck, Roy wasn’t cut out for this type of thing.
The kid sniffled and raised his heavy head, rubbing the tear tracks from flushed cheeks with his knuckles in a way that reminded Roy of a much younger child.
“...your mom’s nice,” he said, small and frail, and Roy gently cupped his jaw and wiped away some last remnants of dried salt with a firm swipe of his thumb.
“I know,” he replied, matching Ed’s volume. He reached for the shampoo bottle, because he would be damned if he let Ed leave this bathtub with his hair in that state, tangled and saturated with sweat and water. “Come on, let’s wash your hair, pipsqueak.”
Ed, to his credit, was done arguing.
He went willingly when Roy gently nudged him to face away and started detangling that bird’s nest with the nearest comb.
The kid still trembled pathetically, but when Roy carefully felt his forehead, some of the feverish heat had faded, so he took pity on the poor boy and turned the water up a bit warmer when he rinsed his hair.
Ed was near boneless beneath his fingers as he washed the shampoo out, leaning into his touch, golden eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion.
“...I miss my Mom,” he said, so softly Roy could barely hear it over the splashing water.
“Oh, kiddo...” he said, gentling his touch even more. Ed really managed to hit him where it hurt without even trying. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Ed sniffled, tears still glistening on those lowered lashes, too young features flushed with illness and exhaustion, and Roy ached.
He pulled the plug and gripped Ed firmly by the forearms, pulling him up more than steadying him. The kid face-planted into his chest, making sure Roy was utterly soaked as well, and he snorted a soft laugh.
Ed settled back on the toilet seat and remained still and silent to the best of his current abilities as Roy smacked a towel down on his head and rubbed the water from his hair. Roy reached for the comb again, briefly resting his palm on Ed’s forehead to make sure his temperature was under control, before he started brushing the kid’s hair out.
“You wanna know something, pipsqueak?” he said softly, wondering why he had the sudden urge to share what was on his mind.
Maybe he just wanted to commiserate.
“Hmm?” Ed hummed, letting Roy towel him down without complaint. Something in his chest panged.
“I miss my Mom too,” he said, draping the towel around the kid’s shoulders to give him a bit of a cover as he turned to rifle through his medicine cabinet.
Ed made a tiny little noise that carried his confusion perfectly. Roy returned to his side bearing some burn cream that would soothe the inflamed skin around Ed’s port-sites a bit.
He lowered himself to his knees in front of Ed, focusing on his task instead of meeting those golden eyes.
“My Ma- she’s my adoptive mother. She’s actually my aunt.”
A sharp inhale above his head.
The kid wasn’t as out of it as it seemed, then.
“Y-your mom died too?” he said, so painfully small, almost something like hope in that raspy, shattered voice.
Fuck, the boy wanted someone to get him so bad.
“Yeah.” Roy gently shifted Ed’s leg, putting the ointment on the inside of his thigh, very conscious of his every move. “My Mom and Dad died in an accident... twenty-two years ago? My father’s family lives far away, so Ma took me in.”
There was a brief beat of silence, and Roy stood, reaching around to do the back of Ed’s shoulder.
“...you still miss them, though?” he asked, even softer than before.
“I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing them,” he said and paused, wondering where the fuck that had come from.
He didn’t do this kind of vulnerability, not sober, not with a child.
“...I see.”
Roy stepped away and put the ointment down on the edge of the sink, reaching for the change of clothes his mother had dropped off on the laundry basket earlier.
“I’ll assume you can manage to dress yourself?” He raised a brow at Ed, and the kid flushed, holding his hands out wordlessly.
Thank fuck. He had no interest in coming anywhere near those wet boxers.
Roy handed over the pile of clothes and took his leave, letting out a long, tired sigh when the bathroom door clicked shut at his back, absentmindedly stripping off his wet shirt but leaving the undershirt.
That boy made him stupid in ways he didn’t like to think about.
His mother seemed to agree, considering the look she gave him as he wandered into the kitchen to join her.
“What?” he said, even though he didn’t think he wanted an answer.
She turned the stove down to a simmer and rested the wooden spoon atop the lip of the pot.
“You care for that boy,” she said and brushed past him to settle back in her abandoned armchair, pouring herself another two fingers of whiskey.
“It’s hard not to,” he replied, dropping down onto the couch. Ed found friends and allies wherever he ventured–the brat just had something about him that made people want to help.
“Hm. I can see that.” She sipped her whiskey in silence. After another few moments, she lowered the tumbler with a sigh. “You’d make a good dad, Roy. I mean it.”
His jaw clenched, and he lowered his gaze to the floor, fingers linked between his knees.
“It’s not going to happen, Ma.”
It was just not in the cards for them. There was too much blood on their hands, too many innocent lives lost to the snap of his fingers, the squeeze of Riza’s trigger.
Too many children dead.
What right did they have to pass on that burden to someone who had no choice in it? To stain an innocent new soul with the blood dripping from their fingertips?
It was different with Ed. He had the marks of his own sins etched across his soul.
“I should go check on Ed.”
He stood without sparing his mother a glance, eyes lowered in shame. Ma heaved a quiet sigh, but Roy pretended he hadn’t heard, making his way to the bathroom door and rapping his knuckles against it.
“Are you decent, kiddo?”
A muffled little yeah from within had him pushing open the door to find Ed huddled on the toilet lid, damp hair loosely tied back. The borrowed clothes swamped him, and the sight invoked something from deep within him, starting up an intimate flare of pain somewhere far too close to his heart.
He cleared his throat. “So. You wanna stay there, or...?”
Ed raised his head, glaring with dark shadows underneath his eyes, and Roy softened.
“...leg’s too heavy,” he mumbled, cutting his eyes away again, a flush that had nothing to do with the fever pinking his cheeks. “Can’t walk.”
“Oh,” he said softly and swallowed hard. “Come here, then.”
Roy stepped closer and bent to scoop the kid up again, the scent of his own shampoo and laundry detergent punching him right in the nose. Ed was still and heavy in his arms. Neither of them said anything as Roy carried him back to the couch and set him down with care.
He shook out the blankets as Ed resumed his tiny-little-ball-form and spread them back over him, tucking in the edges.
His whole body had doubled in weight. Tripled, even.
Ed couldn’t move for shit. He could barely keep his eyes open, the weight of his lids too monumental to struggle against.
A familiar hand covered his forehead, and he sighed softly, enjoying the touch.
“The fever definitely went down,” the Colonel said, low and smooth and nice.
“Good. Let him sleep for now. We’ll force some soup and tea into him later,” Colonel’s mom responded.
Ed did feel a bit better. He still ached all over, and his ports throbbed with heat, and his brain was all soupy and slow, but at least he was back under the blankets, enveloped in warmth instead of shivering in the cold bath.
And he was clean. His hair was soft and loose, and it smelled... nice. Familiar.
It made him feel taken care of. Like he wasn’t all alone in the world after all.
Fingers slid into his drying hair, stroking his bangs away from his heated forehead.
“Just get well, okay, pipsqueak?”
Yeah.
Taken care of.