Lackluster: adj. – lacking in brilliance or radiance; dull; lacking liveliness, vitality, spirit, or enthusiasm.

Disclaimer: Sadly, no.

The world outside was a blustery white. Snow silently beat at the windows from the storm outside, but the unfortunate weather had no affect on those inside the room.

There were three. One was unconscious. One was shuffling cards. One was hunched in the hospital chair closest to the bed, elbows on his knees and eyes trained almost ferociously on the figure lying on the bed. A sharp sound like paper ripping cut through the silence as the cards were shuffled again, bridged, and pushed together into the deck.

The shuffler stopped his interminable task and stared at the man on the other side of the bed. Dark hair, usually immaculately styled into a mess the girls just loved, was now haphazardly ruffled from all the times he'd run his hands anxiously through his hair as of late. Slanted, striking eyes, so dark blue they almost seemed black, usually alert and calculating, were now cradled by dark bruises that spoke of sleepless nights. Roy Mustang was usually the most obviously collected, ever unshakable, but was now falling apart.

Breda sighed and dropped his eyes again, shuffling the cards once more.

"Sir… how long are we going to be staying here?"

Roy looked up at him, evaluating his presence. Breda didn't shift or flinch under the sharp gaze. Finally, the Colonel's eyes wandered over to the window and the snow outside.

"At least until the storm lets up," he said flatly. "You can leave after that."

"And you?" Breda wondered, a little more timidly.

Roy didn't respond. His head seemed to sink lower where his chin was cupped in his hands.

"You can't stay here forever," Breda warned.

"I won't. Just until it goes one way or another."

Privately, Breda wasn't sure they'd even ever find that out, glancing back at the unconscious body on the bed. But Mustang could be the most stubborn man in the world when he wanted to be, and he wasn't about to budge from his vigil.

"I'll go get us some coffee," Breda said aloud, standing and stretching out the cramps in his muscles from sitting in one place so long. Roy had been there much longer—how he stood it, Breda had no idea, but the Colonel was invincible like that. Well, mostly invincible.

At the door, Breda paused and looked over his shoulder at his commanding officer. Roy still had on his uniform, but it was rumpled and bore little streaks of blood; he hadn't changed since Friday night, when it happened. Stubble was evident on his chin—he hadn't shaved either, hadn't done anything but watched over that lonely body in the bed and hoping the heart monitors wouldn't flat line, hoping consciousness would return.

Mostly invincible, except to the blows from his own heart.

"It's not your fault," Breda said softly. There was no outward indication that Roy had heard him, but Breda knew he had; after a moment, Roy sighed and straightened, wincing as he stretched the kinked muscles in his back. His gaze lingered on the prone figure regretfully.

"He's too small for that bed," Roy said in a voice barely above a whisper. "So short he's just drowning in it…"

"Chief would shout your face off if he heard you saying that," Breda joked, trying to add a sense of joviality to the somber scene.

"I wish he would," Roy said flatly. "But the shrimp's got to wake up, first."

"He will." Breda put every ounce of conviction he had into the words. Roy glanced at him, offering a split-second view of the despairing depths of those blue-black eyes, and turned back to the body. Edward Elric, lying limp on a hospital mattress, under thin white sheets, looking even smaller than usual, though that might be the absence of his elevated boots.

Roy returned to his former position, elbows on his knees, chin held in his palms. His slanted eyes were weary from keeping this pointless watch—it had been several days since he'd gotten more than two hours of sleep. He was beating himself up for this turn of events, but from where Breda was standing, it was thanks to the Colonel that Ed was alive right now. Bruised, beaten, stabbed, and hanging onto life by his metaphorical fingertips on one hand, but he was alive.

And getting more stable, too; they'd been able to take him off the respirator yesterday and he was now breathing on his own.

But the fact couldn't be avoided that he looked like death itself. His usual tan from his missions spent outside and traveling was nonexistent in the pallor of his face, which in turn was only visible in sparse places where the bruises hadn't touched. His left eye had been swollen shut when he got here, but now it could probably be opened if the kid could muster the energy to try and wake up. His nose had been a bloody mess but was healing nicely. His bruises were an ugly yellow, but that was better than the blue-purple they had been. His normally blinding golden mane was out of its usual braid and spread across the pillow, bleached to a light, pasty blond by the sterile whiteness of the hospital.

It was what was under the sheets that was the most worrying, however. The automail arm was busted beyond use and the Rockbell girl couldn't even repair it until he was more stable. His right femur was shattered and now in a cast. Broken ribs. Dislocated left shoulder. And the wounds that contributed the most to his near death: two knife wounds just under his ribs, barely an inch apart from each other. Not to mention however many other lacerations and bruises marked the boy's body.

Breda hadn't been there when Ed had almost died, and he guiltily was thankful that Hughes and Mustang were the ones who had been there for him. Neither soldier had explained anything of the situation except that it had everything to do with General Hinze and they'd gotten there within moments of the last fatal blow being struck. Ten seconds later—five, even—and the body on the hospital bed would be taking up its small space in a coffin.

The shudder at the thought expressed itself as a shiver down Breda's spine, and he closed the door and set out on his quest for coffee.

Roy didn't watch him leave. His eyes were elsewhere.

Ed didn't so much as twitch on his own until Thursday afternoon.

Roy had finally shifted his position from the chair. He'd gotten three and a half hours of sleep the night before and had managed to convince Lieutenant Hawkeye to let him stay here instead of work for nearly the entire week. She hadn't really agreed; had told him if he were to stay he'd have to do his paperwork with no incentive other than his own goodwill. She'd intended to have those terms force him back to the office, but now he was leaning against the small table by Ed's hospital bed and scrawling his signature across his paperwork.

His uniform had been replaced by a simple white shirt and slacks; the blue military jacket was now at the drycleaner's to remove the blood stain. He'd shaved yesterday and the bruises under his eyes were slightly smaller after cleaning up, like removing the signs of his weariness had expunged a bit of the fatigue itself.

Once in a while he'd interrupt his hasty scribbling to look at the reason he was still here; but the blond stretched out on the hospital bed never moved, belying every one of Roy's memories of the little hurricane of temper that would barge into his office. All that energy seemed to have been drained now, and what little of it remained had been put to good use—all it could do was continue the beating of his heart, that steady movement of his chest rising… and falling… and rising…

Roy tore his eyes away from the limp form and continued on his paperwork.

The pattern continued; he'd fill out the many forms, his concentration would dwindle, he'd stare at Ed for a few moments and return to his work when he caught his attention drifting. Again, he found himself tapping his chin idly with the pen and staring at Ed, who stared back with golden eyes.

He forced himself back to his paperwork.

Then froze; double take—Ed's eyes were staring at him.

He was awake.

The pen dropped with a tiny clatter, clearly heard in the silent hospital room. Roy nearly tripped over his chair and dragged it over almost as an afterthought, and he sat down in it while it was still crooked and not quite facing the bed. His knees brushed the sheets hanging over the side and Roy couldn't make himself back off.

Those golden eyes were open. Dull, empty, so tired (how could a boy so young be so tired?) but open.

"Fullmetal?" Roy said softly, barely daring to speak louder, as if any kind of volume would scare him back into the depths of his unconscious.

Ed didn't say anything in return, just blinked once, slowly. His eyes wandered away from Roy's gaze and found the ceiling; Roy figured he'd look down again soon enough, the little spider-web cracks up there weren't particularly interesting. He wouldn't tell anyone how he knew that—hours spent waiting, tracing the tiny fractures with his eyes, but it wasn't alchemy and his mind was racing, would he live?—but he knew it as a fact in any case.

Eventually, Ed's dull eyes found his again.

"Colonel." The voice was rusty and pained and it fell flat in the empty hospital room.

A silence, filled by a desperate hope, sheer will, a world of pain.

"Do you need anything?" Roy said softly. "I can call a nurse…" The offer seemed sound, but Ed only looked at him with dead eyes and Roy took that as a negative.

"Feel like shit," Ed finally managed. Roy believed it; Edward looked the way he said he felt. "What…" He sounded almost hesitant, but he plowed on: "What happened?"

Roy pursed his lips and formulated his thoughts, trying to think of the best way to say this. Not that there was a best way, when it came down to it. Did Ed remember any of what happened Friday night? He had to.

"Hinze did a number on you," he said at last.

Ed blinked, then his eyes widened, terror shining through the depths; that, more than anything else, made Roy wish he could go torch that monster Hinze into a nice little patch of charcoal, never mind what consequences may come of it.

"He—" Ed seemed to be gasping for air at the mere thought of the General, and finally he managed to inhale a shaky breath. "Yeah. Must have been him. He thought I…" He trailed off and looked at Roy with those tired, panicked eyes.

"He thought you told," Roy finished softly. He knew—he'd heard the shouting from several houses away, as well as the screams. "Why didn't you?"

Ed closed his eyes, his features a mask of barely restrained despair. "Couldn't. He knew too much. Could've… firing squad for me. Lab for Al… Taboo…"

The reply was vague and broken, but Roy got the message. Hinze had been holding his knowledge of their attempt at human transmutation over their heads for as long as this had been going on. There was a possibility that Ed would have called him on it and risked the consequences for himself, but there was no way he would have endangered Al. And now his silence had come to this.

The pinched distress on Ed's bruised face tore at Roy's heart like nothing had in a long time. On a sudden impulse, he reached forward and brushed his limp bangs away from his eyes, off his forehead and over to rest by his ears. Ed's eyes snapped open at the touch and he stared with a disbelieving kind of confusion at his commanding officer.

Roy had to consciously stop himself from freezing guiltily in the act and drew away slowly instead, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Why the hell had he done that?

"Hinze's in a holding cell for now," Roy told Ed quietly, expecting relief but only receiving an even more guarded look. "I don't know how long he'll be in prison—he'll probably do his best to weasel out of a sentence—but I can guarantee you won't be going back to his care."

"So where m'I gonna go?" Ed asked slowly.

Roy paused at that. "We're… still working things out." Honestly, in reckless abandonment of his usual forethought, he hadn't thought much past the stage of getting Ed to safety and out of Hinze's grasp. What to do after… well, now that Ed was awake he could afford to think beyond.

"An orphanage, right?" the blond boy said desolately. "Shit… I've been an orphan for years, but…"

Roy didn't know what to say to that. Any promises now could very well be utterly empty by the time Ed's situation was actually worked out. "You're going to be here at least another six weeks," Roy said. "By that time we'll know where you're going, most likely much sooner. We'll tell you when it's worked out."

Ed didn't nod, didn't acknowledge, just closed his eyes. His face was immediately wiped clean of everything except the bruises he couldn't hide. Roy recognized the signs and decided to leave Ed alone. Soon enough, the rise and fall of Ed's chest, slightly sporadic from his distress, evened out as he succumbed to sleep.

Roy was still sitting tense on the edge of his seat, watching Ed like a hawk, when the Hawk's Eye herself entered the room twelve minutes later.

"Sir?" Riza ventured. Roy quickly relaxed his pose to something more professional and less desperate, knowing that she normally would have barged right in had she not caught him at a weak moment.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he said, trying to be formal, but this was almost becoming too much for him.

"The hospital has provided a full list of his injuries, if you wished to look," she said cautiously, her heels clacking against the flooring as she made her way across the distance to him.

Roy immediately shook his head. "I've seen enough. I know all his life-threatening injuries and that's good enough for me." It was uncharacteristic of him to brush this off, but the Lieutenant seemed to hear the silent message: I can't take anymore than I already know.

"Lieutenant…" Roy paused, staring at Ed, then continued, "Where's he going once he's discharged?"

"I've been looking into that," Riza said, tucking the medical file under her arm. "This is an… unusual case. Generally, when a child's guardian is found unfit, they would go to a relative. Edward, however, has no relatives. In that case, he would usually be released to the State, and go to an orphanage—but he's also part of the military. From what I've found… His guardianship now goes to his commanding officer." She leveled her stare at him—almost a glare, more of a warning—as her words sunk in.

Roy tore his gaze away from the blond on the bed and turned instead to the one standing before him. His dark eyes were wide. "Me? Me? I'm supposed to be his guardian now?"

Riza nodded solemnly. "The only other option, it seems, would be for you to make arrangements at an orphanage. But then he'd probably have to be discharged from the military, as it's a State orphanage, so I don't think Edward would take well to that." Her hands were clenched tight over the folders she was holding as she waited for further response from the Colonel.

Roy stared at her for a long moment, mouth slightly open; he snapped his jaw shut hastily when he realized he was gaping and looked back at Ed again, though he knew exactly what he would see. The image was permanently ingrained on his retina for how long he'd been staring the past six days. He was dead to the world once more and hadn't heard a word of the conversation. Roy almost wished he had—then he'd have a reaction to work off of, to decide whether this would be a good idea or not.

"I'm really not sure about this," he stalled, feeling almost queasy.

"You don't have to be for at least another week," Riza said. "Try getting used to the idea. And, with all due respect, sir, I mean try. Ed needs the military, no matter what it's done to him in the past. Your answer will need to be ready by next Friday; it'll take from then until Edward is discharged to process the paperwork, whichever way you choose."

Riza dropped off several more files onto the surprisingly small stack he had left to fill out. With the medical report still tucked under her left arm, she saluted and left the room. The door closed behind her quietly.

Silence replaced her presence in the hospital room. Roy was still staring blankly at the door and he finally looked away, bringing his gaze down to the floor as he thought.

So, General Hinze was fully out of the picture of Ed's life at this point. That was good—he'd been a rotten stepfather for such genius boys as the Elric brothers. He wouldn't be leaving them any money, a place to stay, or even his last name, but Roy knew he'd left more than his fair share of scars. Due to his sudden rage (Roy tried to ignore the guilt that still gnawed: he could have prevented that if he'd been thinking straight), Ed was hovering between life and death here in the hospital. And Al was absolutely nowhere to be found. (Though how they'd lost a seven-foot suit of armor with a twelve-year-old soul bound to it, no one really knew.)

Roy could either take Ed into his own home or doom him to an orphanage until he turned eighteen. The kid had turned fourteen a little over a month ago, so that would still be a good four years from now. And even though Riza hadn't said anything of the sort, from her slightly downturned mouth and hard eyes—harder than usual, that is—she wouldn't forgive him if he put Ed through that. Hell, he didn't think he could forgive himself if he did that.

He didn't need a week. He knew now.

Ed would be sharing a home with Colonel Roy Mustang in six weeks.

Damn that General Hinze.

This being my first story, I'd like some reviews to see if my writing's worth posting before I put up the second chapter. Yes, I'm shamelessly begging for reviews. But please, if you feel so inclined, let me know if you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is much enjoyed!

~ UnAdulterated