Prompt 1, Automail Dysfunction, "The Man Who Fakes a Limp"
Title: The Man Who Fakes a Limp
Author: raja815
Word Count: 999
Rating: PG
Characters: Edward-centric
Summary: The limbs may be gone, but they can be lively.
Warnings: Angst
Edward had hit on the name of the situation early on, before he’d even begun to master his automail. Confined to the hospital cot in the recovery room of the Rockbell automail clinic, forbidden by Pinako to touch a book on alchemy, and already through his limited supply of fiction, he’d taken to reading the Rockbell clinic’s stock of medical textbooks. The sensation was already scratching at the back of him mind, even as he read the words from the huge tome propped on a pillow beside him. Phantom limbs, it said, a common sensation after amputation. There was a good deal of jargon, but all it amounted to was the feeling that the arm and leg he’d lost to the Gate, the ones now replaced with synthetic nerves and metal musculature, weren’t gone at all. That they were right there, where they’d always been, screaming with pain at sharing their space with automail. It was unpleasant, unnerving, but the books assured him that the sensation would diminish in time.
It didn’t.
Oh, he didn’t always feel it. As years marched on, he had whole months when his vanished limbs were just that, with not so much as a twinge. But it always came back. The skin that was no longer there crawled in horror at the prosthetic monstrosity that had taken its place. The fingers, the ones he hadn’t seen since the night of their sin, curled in pain even as his automail digits stayed ramrod straight. The limbs were ghosts, but the pain was real. Sometimes he suspected, even hoped in a macabre way, that the link of physical pain meant his arm and leg were still alive somewhere beyond the Gate that had taken him.
But the pain wasn’t the worst of it. Not by far. He had known far worse pain. The worst was the queer sense of doubling that accompanied these hallucinations… if they were hallucinations. It was a kind of physical déjà vu, a vertigo not of the head but of the body, that came as the physical presence of the automail mixed with the sensation of his ghost limbs, each insisting it was there, it was real, until he felt his mind straining under the weight of too much metal and flesh and his stomach ached and his eyes blurred and swam.
He hid it, of course. He’d come close to letting it slip to Winry once or twice during maintenance, even closer to telling Al when the sensation was at its peak and his brother’s kind voice was whispering Brother, what’s wrong? Brother, what is it? But in the end he had not. What would it accomplish, besides making them worry? What could they possibly do to make it better?
Nothing. It was all on him.
Even so, it was Al who was his solace when the doubling was at its worst. Edward would lie still if he was fortunate and it was night, sit or stand as still as possible if he was not, close his eyes and think in a slow, precise mantra, Al must have it so much worse. Al must have it so much worse. Knowing his brother might feel the same awful phantom replication throughout his whole body often seemed to shame his ghost limbs back to quiet.
It didn’t always work, though. Nothing always worked, and Edward knew that better than most.
It was a particularity bad bout; the ghost limbs had been screaming that they weren’t ghosts at all but here, right here for nearly a week, and as if that wasn’t enough, he was due for his three months’ report at Eastern Headquarters. The vibration of the train against the automail was always unpleasant, and the way his real and prosthetic limbs seemed to vie for the spaces below his elbow and knee had culminated to a deep, swimmy nausea that he couldn’t shake off even in sleep. Worse, he knew Al could tell he wasn’t himself, and he was running out of excuses. And of course, there was nothing waiting for him at the end of this trip than the Colonel’s smug face and endless expense reports.
He was sick in the men’s room of the train station and walked the rest of the way to the military compound with acid burning in his sinuses. Al worried so much that Ed didn’t object when he wanted to separate and go ahead to their usual hotel and secure a room. Normally he didn’t like to stay the night after giving a report unless it was an absolute necessity, but today he had no voice to argue.
The sound of his own footsteps in the wide, empty hallways at Headquarters was almost unbearable. He seemed almost to hear the softer pat of the real foot overlapping the harsher click of the automail leg, and the sounds resonated in his ears, driving all thoughts of Al must have it so much worse out of his tortured head.
You’re gone, you’re gone, don’t you know you’re gone, you fucking things? He thought desperately, and tried to reel his thoughts in and hold his face normally as he entered the Colonel’s office.
“Ah, Fullmetal.” The Colonel's voice grated more than usual. “Late, as usual and…” He looked up, met Edward’s face, and frowned. “You’re not well.”
Oh, he hated him for noticing. Hated him more for bringing it up. “Fine. Perfectly fine. It’s you who isn’t well, I’m always hearing what a sick bastard you are.”
Mustang looked at him, and nodded slowly. “Fine. You can wait in my meeting room for me; I’ll be awhile finishing this up.”
Ed knew he was being given time to rest and compose himself and bristled at it, but his limbs were screaming and he could not argue. He forced his legs-the real, the ghost, the automail-to carry him to the small, secluded room, sat on the small divan in the corner, and let himself slide backwards into a welcome half-swoon.
Author: raja815
Word Count: 999
Rating: PG
Characters: Edward-centric
Summary: The limbs may be gone, but they can be lively.
Warnings: Angst
Edward had hit on the name of the situation early on, before he’d even begun to master his automail. Confined to the hospital cot in the recovery room of the Rockbell automail clinic, forbidden by Pinako to touch a book on alchemy, and already through his limited supply of fiction, he’d taken to reading the Rockbell clinic’s stock of medical textbooks. The sensation was already scratching at the back of him mind, even as he read the words from the huge tome propped on a pillow beside him. Phantom limbs, it said, a common sensation after amputation. There was a good deal of jargon, but all it amounted to was the feeling that the arm and leg he’d lost to the Gate, the ones now replaced with synthetic nerves and metal musculature, weren’t gone at all. That they were right there, where they’d always been, screaming with pain at sharing their space with automail. It was unpleasant, unnerving, but the books assured him that the sensation would diminish in time.
It didn’t.
Oh, he didn’t always feel it. As years marched on, he had whole months when his vanished limbs were just that, with not so much as a twinge. But it always came back. The skin that was no longer there crawled in horror at the prosthetic monstrosity that had taken its place. The fingers, the ones he hadn’t seen since the night of their sin, curled in pain even as his automail digits stayed ramrod straight. The limbs were ghosts, but the pain was real. Sometimes he suspected, even hoped in a macabre way, that the link of physical pain meant his arm and leg were still alive somewhere beyond the Gate that had taken him.
But the pain wasn’t the worst of it. Not by far. He had known far worse pain. The worst was the queer sense of doubling that accompanied these hallucinations… if they were hallucinations. It was a kind of physical déjà vu, a vertigo not of the head but of the body, that came as the physical presence of the automail mixed with the sensation of his ghost limbs, each insisting it was there, it was real, until he felt his mind straining under the weight of too much metal and flesh and his stomach ached and his eyes blurred and swam.
He hid it, of course. He’d come close to letting it slip to Winry once or twice during maintenance, even closer to telling Al when the sensation was at its peak and his brother’s kind voice was whispering Brother, what’s wrong? Brother, what is it? But in the end he had not. What would it accomplish, besides making them worry? What could they possibly do to make it better?
Nothing. It was all on him.
Even so, it was Al who was his solace when the doubling was at its worst. Edward would lie still if he was fortunate and it was night, sit or stand as still as possible if he was not, close his eyes and think in a slow, precise mantra, Al must have it so much worse. Al must have it so much worse. Knowing his brother might feel the same awful phantom replication throughout his whole body often seemed to shame his ghost limbs back to quiet.
It didn’t always work, though. Nothing always worked, and Edward knew that better than most.
It was a particularity bad bout; the ghost limbs had been screaming that they weren’t ghosts at all but here, right here for nearly a week, and as if that wasn’t enough, he was due for his three months’ report at Eastern Headquarters. The vibration of the train against the automail was always unpleasant, and the way his real and prosthetic limbs seemed to vie for the spaces below his elbow and knee had culminated to a deep, swimmy nausea that he couldn’t shake off even in sleep. Worse, he knew Al could tell he wasn’t himself, and he was running out of excuses. And of course, there was nothing waiting for him at the end of this trip than the Colonel’s smug face and endless expense reports.
He was sick in the men’s room of the train station and walked the rest of the way to the military compound with acid burning in his sinuses. Al worried so much that Ed didn’t object when he wanted to separate and go ahead to their usual hotel and secure a room. Normally he didn’t like to stay the night after giving a report unless it was an absolute necessity, but today he had no voice to argue.
The sound of his own footsteps in the wide, empty hallways at Headquarters was almost unbearable. He seemed almost to hear the softer pat of the real foot overlapping the harsher click of the automail leg, and the sounds resonated in his ears, driving all thoughts of Al must have it so much worse out of his tortured head.
You’re gone, you’re gone, don’t you know you’re gone, you fucking things? He thought desperately, and tried to reel his thoughts in and hold his face normally as he entered the Colonel’s office.
“Ah, Fullmetal.” The Colonel's voice grated more than usual. “Late, as usual and…” He looked up, met Edward’s face, and frowned. “You’re not well.”
Oh, he hated him for noticing. Hated him more for bringing it up. “Fine. Perfectly fine. It’s you who isn’t well, I’m always hearing what a sick bastard you are.”
Mustang looked at him, and nodded slowly. “Fine. You can wait in my meeting room for me; I’ll be awhile finishing this up.”
Ed knew he was being given time to rest and compose himself and bristled at it, but his limbs were screaming and he could not argue. He forced his legs-the real, the ghost, the automail-to carry him to the small, secluded room, sat on the small divan in the corner, and let himself slide backwards into a welcome half-swoon.