"If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals."
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

"Oh well this is a surprise."

Winry stared at Ed and Al, powdered white with a ripped bag of flour lying on the floor between them. She sighed and shook her head. Put either one in the kitchen alone and it's fine, put them both in... She needed to run to the market and get more flour. Again.

At least it wasn't the eggs, she reminded herself. She crossed her arms and asked a little less than seriously, "What are you two doing?"

Alphonse smiled a little and laughed. "We were trying to make breakfast, but eh..." He looked down at the bag of flour. "Sorry, Winry."

It was very clear that she was tired, much too early for this nonsense. She looked over to her husband, who was staring at the bag of flour, as if trying to will it to reconstruct itself. "Ed?"

"Hmm? Sorry," he said and turned on his heels to open the space beneath the sink for the dust pan. "It's my fault, I got distracted and ran into Al."

Winry sighed, and looked through the doorway to the living room, where the guests were. May had come downstairs, and, when she saw the guests, had taken to talking with them. It at least kept them busy while she handled this mess. Returning her gaze over to the two brothers, she saw them cleaning up the flour. "So Al, I noticed that they've arrived."

Momentarily, Al looked up. "Yeah, they've been here a little bit now. What are you doing up so early though?"

"It's hard to sleep when someone's working on the roof at four thirty in the morning," She answered flatly. "And I also heard a crash. Something happen?"

Edward rubbed his shoulder a little bit and shrugged. "Yeah, I kinda tripped."

Her eyes narrowed. "On the roof? Ed, did you fall off?" Of course there was annoyance in her tone, but also an underlying concern. But how could she not? After all the scares he's given her, it was expected that she would worry.

"Uh, yeah. I did," he answered simply. As usual, she worried, he brushed it off. "It's okay, I landed in the bushes and nothing broke. I'm fine."

Alphonse looked at the ground a moment before looking up to his brother slightly alarmed. "You're bleeding!"

Ed looked a bit surprised by that, "Huh?" And then before he could respond further, his brother pushed his sleeve up - it had been rolled up, but it slipped down when he had gotten up out of the bushes and he hadn't bothered to push it back up again - to reveal a few scratches and fresh forming bruises on his forearm. From a few of those scratches blood sprang out and trickled down to his wrist. "Hmm... guess I didn't notice."

"Are there any other bruises?" Al wondered.

With a sigh, Ed waved him off and rubbed at some of the blood trails on his arm. "Al, you're really freaking out about this? Come on, I've been through worse."

"I know, but still," Alphonse replied.

Winry crossed the kitchen and reached up to the cupboard to get a first aid kit from the top shelf. "Ed, get over here." Ed got up and approached her at the sink, while Al remained where he was kneeling by the flour mess. Winry went straight to rinsing the scratches in the sink. "On the bright side this should just scab over pretty quick. How did you land exactly?"

Ed looked up a second in thought. "I landed on my left leg and that took most of the impact. I think the scratches came from when I was tumbling down the roof."

"You didn't hit your head at all?" She asked.

"No, Win," he said tiredly, half rolling his eyes over her fretting. But then she smacked him upside the head, and he quickly brought his other arm up to rub the new sore spot on the back of his skull. "Ow! Hey, what was that for?!"

"You know you have to be more careful! What if you broke your leg or something? Or gave yourself a concussion?" She snapped at him. "Do you know how serious that is?!

As Ed and Winry bickered, Alphonse chuckled a little to himself and returned his attention to cleaning up the mess. Though he frowned at some of the flecks of Ed's blood that stained bits of flour. It was only a scratch, he knew that, but after everything, blood really started to bother him. True, not nearly as much as Ed, but it did give him a hint of uneasiness.

He disposed of the bag and then swept up the flour into the pan. That cleaned up, he looked over to his brother and sister-in-law still bickering.

"I know what broken bones are like, Winry, I've broken my arm before!" Ed said sharply.

Winry took the cloth in her hand, and pressed it into the scratches, which made him wince slightly. Probably had alcohol on it. "Then you should know that some broken bones can be bad enough to cause worse problems. Ed, I've had to make automail for people who lose their limbs because a broken bone."

Ed opened his mouth to retort, but instead shut it and sighed. "Alright. I'll be more care, okay?"

Just then, Allen poked his head into the kitchen. "I hope I'm not interrupting, but is everything okay in here?"

The three all stared at the younger and Alphonse told him, "No. Everything's fine, Allen."

Allen nodded and then glanced at his mom and dad, the former of whom was still holding the cloth to the latter's arm. "Did dad hurt himself?"

"Just a scratch from falling off the roof," Ed answered. "Don't worry about it, son."

To that, Allen hummed to that, seeming a little guilty looking and then withdrew from the doorway, leaving them be.

Winry fished for the bandages in the first aid kit. "You couldn't sleep again. Was that why you went up on the roof?"

Ed looked down. "Yeah."

"Nightmares?" She guessed.

"Hmm..."

"It never seems to end, huh?" Al noted with some sadness to his voice.

Ed nodded. "I thought they'd go away once I got your body back, Al. Guess it doesn't work like that."

"You can tell us, you know," Winry said, "are they the same nightmares you had as a kid?"

He shook his head. "No. It's more like I keep seeing it all happening again. Plain as day, that whole mess the country was in." With a long sigh, he pushed back at his bangs and put on a smile, though it was forced and transparent. "It's nothing new, just don't worry about it."

"Somehow I find that less assuring," Alphonse said under his breath.

"Maybe time would not feel as heavy if I didn't have this guilt - the guilt of knowing the truth and stuffing it down where no one can see it."
― Veronica Roth, Insurgent

Maybe four hours passed, with the sun now hanging a little above the east horizon. Its warm light hit the grass on the hills and the leaves in the vineyard. Some small clouds lazily moved across the sky, the light and wispy ones that seemed to hang just too high up in the atmosphere.

Of course, a few people were resting right now from the train ride, namely Lt. Deller and Irene, but Allen had found himself seated on the porch. One knee was pulled to him, and he rested the side of his head on the railing of the steps. It didn't bother him too much, being alone like this, it let him be alone with his thoughts. Let him think.

And out ahead of him was the path away and the fields. He felt a smile tug at his lips, he remembered many times he ran around this yard with his sister and dad while his mom watched from the porch laughing in amusement. Sometimes his dad would grad him or Lucille by the wrists and swing them in circles, and other times they climbed on his back and he'd run around. If his dad was working in the vineyard, then Uncle Al could almost always be counted on to play with them instead. Even though he was busy a lot of the time, he'd always find an hour or two to get his brother and them and play. And when they were attending school, he remembered that his mom would usually be waiting for them on the porch.

Allen glanced down at his hand, where a thick faded scar lay on his thumb. He remembered getting that. He had been helping his dad fix the front step, since one of them was rotting out. He hadn't been paying attention like he was supposed to and he hit his thumb with the hammer, which ended up pinching it to the wood and taking off a bit of skin. Of course, he had been about ten or so, and was completely frightened when he saw his bloody thumb. Of course, so was his dad, what with tetanus and all.

His dad worried about a lot of things. Worked a lot too. It seemed like he was almost always trying to do something productive. Of course, he'd take his little cat nap at some point, but that's as lazy as he got. At least he'd always find time to be with him and Lucille.

Hmm... He remembered how he used to sing them a lullaby every night when they were little. His dad had such a nice voice too. There was the rare time too when either of them got sick and he'd sit on the couch with them, letting his kid curl into his side while he would smooth their hair down. Allen smiled a little at the memory of it, his dad was always there for his family.

So why the hell am I so scared to talk to him? Allen wondered this before yawning and closing his eyes for what felt like a minute or so. He was jolted to his senses again by a sudden hand on his shoulder, and he snapped his head up to look at his dad a bit bewildered.

His startled reaction only tipped his dad off to his dosing, and the older man smiled apologetically. "Sorry. You're tired, I guess."

"Just a little bit..." Allen mumbled and rested his cheek against his knee. "I couldn't sleep too well on the train."

His dad chuckled a little and sat down beside him. "I know how that is. The seats don't tend to be very comfortable."

"Right... You traveled on them a lot when you were younger," Allen said and stared half-liddedly at nothing in particular. "When you were a State Alchemist, right?"

His dad nodded. "Yeah. I was sent all over the place... Everyone's been getting into this whole car industry now, so I'm not sure how long these railways are staying open."

"The railways are good as public transportation though," Allen disagreed, "it's definitely cheaper to get a ticket on a train than buy the gas to go the same distance."

His dad shrugged, "The problem with oil here is that there's not too much of it around. But there's plenty of coal in the mountains."

Allen sighed. "Alright. What is it?"

"Huh?" The older man looked at him with a questioning look. "What?"

"I don't think you came out here to discuss economics," Allen replied. "So what is it?"

To this, his dad shook his head. "You've been awfully quiet since you left here. I'm just wondering if everything's okay."

"I've just got a lot to think about. What with everything going on," Allen answered, "Don't take it too personally, dad, but military training doesn't tend to make someone very talkative."

It seemed like his dad was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He nodded.

But the problem was still there... Still very much there...

Some time after lunch was when Mustang decided to talk to Ed. He couldn't afford to just bicker with him. No, he actually wanted to talk to him and see how he was doing. It shocked him how much that boy grew up, how different things were now. He just wanted to see if he could get into one of their better discussions for old time's sake. Hell, maybe they could laugh about all that happened twenty five years ago. Maybe he could shake him down for that 520 cens he still owed him - Allen mentioned something about that before, right?

He felt a bit uneasy as another plausible topic came to mind; the possibility that Edward could have been really mentally scarred because of it all. Of all the things to ruin, his mind just seemed... wrong. And it disturbed him to know that he possibly had some form of PTSD, because at heart he felt responsible for it. He convinced an eleven-year-old boy to join the military by twelve, what was he expecting?

... Correction, it seemed like there was little to no room for "possibly" in that assumption. No, if Allen's accounts were anything to go by, then he definitely experienced flashbacks. Since he got here, he had been on high alert for a single hint that he wasn't at his best. The most he noticed so far was a look in Ed's eyes, of mute horror that screamed in their gold depths, that he caught sight of a few times. Just as quickly as that look would come, he would freeze, and then he'd be fine again a second or two later as if it hadn't happened.

Sure enough, Mustang found Edward in the living room, asleep on the couch. It kind of reminded him of when that punk was a kid and slept on the couch in his office whenever he came back dead on his feet. He still sprawled out with his automail foot flung over the arm of the couch and his arms crossed over his chest just like he always had. His eyes were shut, the lids flickering as he dreamed. He could have passed for a normal, peaceful person...

... If it weren't for the frown so deeply set in his tense face and his hands tightly curled into fists.

Mustang took a seat on the ottoman and simply watched him sleeping. It wasn't that long, maybe five or so minutes, before Alphonse was walking in from doing some yard work outside, and shutting the door. The sound wasn't a loud one, but just after it, Ed's eyes snapped wide open and he momentarily stopped breathing. Before Mustang could wonder why, the younger man pushed himself to a quick sit and whipped his head to look over the back of the couch in the direction of the noise.

And the blond man stared, long and hard at the door, seemingly right through his brother. The muscles in his arms showed every twitch and flinch from panicked nerve signals, as if he couldn't quite make up his mind on whether he should act on his fight or his flight response. Then with a wriggle of his ear, he whipped his head in Mustang's direction, alerted to the very existence of him. He sat there, eyes wide with unclear intent, and a mix of uncertainty and panic that felt so foreign. He didn't look to be breathing, but his heart visibly slammed in his chest.

All the Fuhrer could do was watch this unfamiliar behavior from his youngest subordinate before he found it in himself to say "Startled, Fullmetal?" with his usual disinterested tone.

After two drawn out blinks, some recognition dawned in Ed's eyes, and he looked down to his hands a moment. It almost seemed as if something about the words unlocked his windpipe, and he drew in a deep breath. He set his mismatched feet on the floor and acted as if it hadn't happened; with an exhale, his shoulders sagged in an exhausted way. "Colonel? Were you watching me sleep or something?"

"Eh... I was just sitting down," he dismissed, "and I'm not a Colonel anymore. How many times do I need to remind you?"

"Until it gets in my head, I guess," Ed answered with a lack of interest. "Were you always this petty about rank or something? Sheesh..." He stretched his arms a little and yawned.

"No, I was never petty," Mustang replied, "though you might be inclined to remember me that way."

"Wouldn't argue there," Ed agreed, much to his ex-superior's annoyance.

Mustang sighed, pinching at his brow with his fingers. Why did he even bother?

"Something up?" Ed asked.

Looking up, the Fuhrer sent him a serious look. "I have a question for you."

"Sure, what?" He didn't seem to really be joking, now that he saw that he wasn't.

"I know this is a private matter," Mustang said carefully, "but I have to know, did your time in the military leave you with any lasting trauma?"

Ed snorted. "What? Worrying about me now? My mental health shouldn't be your concern."

"Well it is," Mustang responded flatly, "consider it just me wanting to look out for a subordinate."

"I'm not your subordinate anymore." Ed countered. "And what the hell do you even mean by 'lasting trauma'? You make it sound like I've got a fragile little head that's going to shatter under the slightest pressure."

"So no trauma on your end?" Mustang said.

Ed rolled his eyes. "Hate to break it to you, but a good deal of my life was trauma. You don't tend to go through my predicament without it, you know? What makes you think I have any?"

Mustang thought about how to answer the question. "You just woke up looking about ready to wring someone's neck, and it took you a moment to snap out of it."

With a mumbled complaint he didn't quite catch, Ed looked up to the ceiling. "It's just how I am. Light sleeper, you know?"

"Not when I had you as a subordinate. You slept like the dead." Mustang disagreed. "And how you looked, it reminded me of some soldiers after the Ishvalian War."

To that, Ed rolled his eyes and rubbed at the back of his neck. "It doesn't matter."

"You never know, it could," the older replied, knitting his fingers together. "But I guess I shouldn't be surprised if you don't want to talk about it."

"Now hold up, I know want you're trying to do," Ed said quickly, effectively stopping him in his tracks, "you're going to try playing with my head saying that you know I hadn't changed at all and that I'm still just a stupid little brat. And then you'll expect me to get all mad and tell you everything. Well I'm not going to play into that this time, you bastard." He crossed his arms. "So there."

For a moment or so, Mustang stared at him. Well, at least he learned something over the years. "Who said anything about playing with your short complex? No point now considering you're almost as tall as me." He grinned. "But you're still smaller."

Edward twitched, and narrowed his eyes at him. "You're playing a dangerous game, Fuhrer-Colonel."

"Am I?" He considered, and stood up.

Right after he did, Ed shot up from the couch. It didn't take a genius to spot the few inches the elder had on him, and to this, Edward growled and jumped up onto the couch to stand over him. "You can shut the hell up."

Mustang took a step back onto the ottoman. Once more he was 'taller' than Ed. "Really, Fullmetal? You haven't grown up at all, have you?"

Ed jumped up on the arm of the couch and pointed at him, "I have too grown! Would you quit it!"

Mustang scoffed, but without something higher to step up, he was forced to forfeit his side of this childish competition - maybe sounding like an ass would have to do. "Maybe because you finally started drinking your milk..."

To that, Ed screamed, "Dammit, Colonel would you just- AGH!" A pillow had come flying at him from somewhere off to the side, smacking Ed in the side of the head and knocking him off balance. He fell sideways and smacked down onto the couch heavily with a chorus of creaking springs. Both he and Mustang looked to the origin of the thrown pillow.

Winry was standing over the chair with an irked look on her face. "Ed, would you quit with the screaming? Take it outside, not on the furniture!"

Ed blinked a couple times, rubbing at his neck as he pushed up to a sit. At first there was still annoyance, but then shown a bit of guilt. "Sorry, Winry."

Upon seeing the look, the irritation on his wife's face softened. "That didn't hurt, did it?"

"No, no, it didn't," Ed answered with a short laugh. "Pillows are better than wrenches and spanners any day."

Winry smiled back, and nodded, "Okay."

Edward got up. "I guess you're right though." He pushed his shoes on at the door. "I should probably just go outside for a bit."

"I'll call you in around dinner if you aren't back by then," she called as he opened the door.

With a loose wave over his shoulder, Ed stepped outside. "Thanks." Then closed the door behind him.

Mustang stood there at first, not really sure what to think. Then he looked over to Winry, who was just leaving the room. "This was my fault. Sorry, ma'am."

Winry glanced at him from the doorway. "If it was, then go apologize."

The Fuhrer didn't waste a beat. "Right." Then he was on his way out after Ed.

Ed briefly looked over his shoulder at the house before continuing down the walkway. He stopped a moment at the shed to pull the sickle off the shelf. Then he continued down on his way to the road. Of course, Luke noticed him leaving and got up to follow him.

With the dog at his heels, Ed ran a hand over the serrated blade of the sickle. This was the one that was made for Granny from Alphonse's armor, and since she died so long ago, they kept it around. Alphonse liked to try his best to take care of it, keep it in good shape and what not. Of course, that didn't stop Ed from using it time to time to do what he had in mind right now.

"Hey! Wait up!"

"Hey, Pipsqueak."

His eyes widened at the voice. No. No, it couldn't be. His hand tightened around the sword in hand. Not that... But the footfalls behind him, they were heavy and fast. It was coming after him now. No time to think, he needed to act or else the voices would get to him. The faces of those souls would cry out for him in all their misery and pain... and he would freeze. No. No, no, NO! He couldn't freeze this time! He needed to be quick and not think. Don't think, dammit!

With a cry, he turned on his heels and swung out with his sword at the approaching attacker. But he stopped.

His eyes... They... They were... They weren't...They were dark navy.

Mustang swallowed thickly with widened eyes full of surprise at the blade that was so close to ripping his jugular out, "F-Fullmetal?"

Slowly, Ed lowered the sickle from his neck and turned away from him to keep going. Maybe if he just didn't look then he'd go away. "What the hell do you want?"

"You can't be that mad at me," the Fuhrer said.

"I'm not!" Ed snapped, irritated. Damn it! Again. Again with these flashes!

"I don't know about you, but farming tools pressed at my neck don't tend to scream friendship to me," Mustang drawled, seeming to blow this off. Surely he had to have some clue that Ed could have killed him. Could have and would have, if he hadn't woken up.

"You're making me wish I did kill you." Ed growled, though he knew it was an empty threat. He could never wish death on someone. Never... Not even his own father at the worst of times.

As he kept walking, Mustang fell into step beside him. "No you don't."

"What the hell do you want?" Ed questioned again with a growing lack of patience as he considered picking up the pace. Probably wouldn't be the best idea. His luck it'd trigger something and he'd be lost again.

Mustang didn't so much as look at him. "I'd ask, but you've given me all the information I needed just now." They both exchanged a look, serious as sin and for Ed a bit embarrassing at being found out. "You've got Post Traumatic Stress, don't you."

"Can't even pretend to phase it like a question, can you?" Ed scoffed bitterly. It felt like he was chewing on glass with this confession he was being forced to make. Now there was no one left who would treat him the same... No one at all. "You want the truth? Then yes, I get flash backs. Sometimes I'm back in the military and other times it's the basement. Now that you know, would you just get off my back?"

To that request, Mustang shook his head. "Sorry. Can't. It's a serious problem, Fullmetal, and you know it."

"It's nothing I can't handle," Ed argued.

"Is it?" Mustang considered. "You almost tore my throat out just a minute ago, and you were ready to bolt when your brother closed a door."

"But I didn't hurt anyone," he argued, "I got myself out of it."

"If you're going to hurt yourself at this rate," Mustang told him sharply, "and don't think I didn't hear about you running out in that thunderstorm."

Edward nearly tugged at his hair in frustration. "Did Alphonse tell you that?! He's way too worried about this!"

"Actually, Allen did," Mustang corrected.

Upon hearing this, Ed stopped walking. "Allen?"

Mustang nodded. "He was worried and upset when he told me about it. It wouldn't surprise me if it still bothers him."

With a deep breath, Edward resumed his walk, and turned to walk through the fence and into the cemetery. He twirled the sickle in his hand to readjust his grip, and knelt down in front Trisha and Hohenheim's graves sitting beside each other. With a careful hand, he started to trim the weeds that had grown at the sides, and brushed the dirt and grass off the stones when he was done. Once he was done with their graves, he got up and moved a little further into the cemetery to where Winry's parents and Pinako's graves were, and did the same there.

"Do you do this often?" Mustang wondered.

"About every month or so," Ed answered simply. "Sometimes Winry or Al come out and help me, but I always head out to do this."

"I see." Mustang looked at the grave stones a little guiltily. He never visited Hughes's grave as much as he liked. It seemed like work always got in the way. He'd have to make sure he went to the Central cemetery some time in the near future.

"If it weren't such a pain in the ass, I'd go over and see Brigadier General Hughes too," Ed added, seeming to have the same thought, "but I don't go too many places any more." Ed sat back on the grass in front of the three graves of the Rockbell family. The sickle resting in his slacked grip. He had to bury his parents. He had to bury the only person he could ever know as a grandparent. Some day would he be forced to bury his children here too? He sighed and looked up at Mustang. "So Allen told you?"

Mustang looked down. "Yeah. He told me because he wanted to understand it. He wants to know what you did all those years ago that messed you up so bad. Now I could have told him, but considering everything, you might benefit from being able to reflect on the worst of those events, and putting them past you."

"PTSD doesn't go away," Ed disagreed.

"Sounds like you've given up," Mustang responded, "that's not like you, Fullmetal. Where'd that spirit go?"

"I got older," he answered meekly, "and besides, I only had one goal back then, and that was to get Al's body back."

"Your motive had been to get your bodies back, not just Alphonse's," Mustang said, "If I were to say anything, I'd say you only got half what you lost back."

Ed glared at him, and his fingers tightened into fists on his pant leg. "I have my arm again. And Al has his whole body back in one piece. We only got that much back because I gave up the very damn thing that makes me an alchemist. There's nothing else for me to give up to get that leg back, so why bother?"

"Well there was the philosopher's stone," Mustang considered, but he already knew the answer to that.

"No. Just like then, I'd still never use a stone to fix myself. If I want to fix it so bad, which I don't, then I can go and find a different way."

Mustang shrugged. "That's fine. What extra stones that were found were given to use by Dr. Marcoh, who has been going around in the East continuing his work as a doctor. But you can try to help yourself still. You can try and get past the trauma. It's not easy, I know, but it's better than giving up."

"That stuff isn't the sort of thing that goes away," Ed retorted.

"Granted, but you could work on finding ways to cope with it better. And you never know until you try, so quit being so doubtful."

Ed sighed, and looked down at the graves again before looking up again with his old grin. "You're still the same persistent bastard you've always been, aren't you?"

"Have to be," Mustang replied, "or else you let yourself get in one of your depressed slumps."

"I'm not in a slump," Edward disagreed, "I don't know if you noticed, but the years after I left the military were some of the best of my life. I'm not regretting a thing about it."

"So being coddled because of a mental disability doesn't bother you," considered the Fuhrer.

Edward sighed. "Well I could do without that. But otherwise, I'm happy."

"And you have no plans to try and work with your trauma," he concluded. "It's so unlike you, giving up like this, Fullmetal."

Anger broiled in the golden depths of Ed's eyes, and he glared at him heatedly. In a swift movement, he stood up and stood threateningly close to Mustang as he argued, "Look, I don't want to hear it! It's not like you understand! You don't even know anything about it! I never did give up, you bastard - not fucking once! I came home and I promised myself that I wouldn't hurt Winry with what I had to do in those years, and when Allen and Lucille were born, I swore to myself up and down that I wouldn't let them ever have to know about any of that pain either! I'm fighting a war every day, and no one sees that! No one sees that I try so hard to keep it all under control! So just shut up!"

Mustang didn't even flinch despite the surprise at the sudden rant. What even drove such an angry reaction like that from the younger man? If it weren't for the fact that yelling and anger were two very familiar things he associated with Fullmetal, then he would have taken a step back, perhaps. In fact, he felt somewhat comforted by the sudden shouting. Maybe not the actual shouting part, but in those gold eyes burned that old resilience fire that was always there - so driven to keep fighting.

With a calm smile, Mustang put a hand on Edward's shoulder; and action which drew a startled flinch from the blond. "Well, if you want to really get some head way in dealing with the trauma, take my advice on this and talk about it. Tell your kids what happened, and it'll let you work through it all yourself so it won't bother you so much. You can't hide it all forever, you know."

Edward slumped his shoulders and moved his stare to his feet. "I know... I just... I - I can't. I can't talk about any of it..."

"Do you need help with that?" Mustang asked.

Slowly, Ed nodded.

Mustang's hand gave an assuring squeeze on his shoulder. "Then don't worry. You've got me and Alphonse to help you through that. Trust me, your kids will feel much better too knowing what happened."

Edward sighed and looked up again. "Yeah, fine. Guess this was coming around at some point..." He looked in the direction of the house, his eyes narrowing as if he could see it over the crest of the hill. "We should be getting back."

There was no disagreement on that, and Edward bent down to pick up the sickle from the grass. As they were leaving the cemetery, Luke scurried along after them with his puppy-like air.

As they walked, a prickling unease bit at the back of Ed's neck, like someone was watching. He knew that feeling all too well, and it rose the hairs across his body until goosebumps stood despite the warm summer air. It was that familiar sense that there was someone, and he couldn't help feeling more like prey.

But then he reeled back in his mind, wondering to himself if he was just having another flashback. That could have just been it, he surmised, after all he made that mistake of thinking he was watched when it was nothing before. This was most likely no different. It couldn't be.

No matter what logic he threw in the face of his panicky head, instincts won out in the end, and he chanced a glance over his shoulder. And sure enough, there was someone, a man in a large coat hanging on his shoulders standing some ways from the gate to the cemetery. There was a split second when they were staring right at each other, and then the cold eyes broke their connection, and the man turned to walk the other way up the path as if it hadn't happened.

Edward said nothing, and returned his eyes to what was in front of him. Once more rationalizing what he saw in his head. Okay, so that was a man. So what? He was probably just here to visit his own family like Ed was. Nothing suspicious about that. Nothing at all. But was he just leaving? Edward hadn't noticed him in the cemetery earlier, so maybe not. Maybe he just stopped and turned the other way because he had to go get something. Could be, some people were forgetful enough. But why stare at them? ...

He didn't even need to really ask that for it to make sense. He was, after all, standing right next to the Fuhrer - the acting leader of Amestris. Almost everyone knew what Mustang looked like, it certainly wasn't hard to describe the man. And if Edward was walking with him, then that'd raise some eyebrows too.

There were only two things that his rationalizing could quite figure out. Firstly, why the coat in the summer? True, it was hanging off the man's shoulders, but why even bring it then? It was too hot to wear one. And second, he never saw that man before. Could just be visiting, but almost no one visits Risembool without knowing someone in the form of friend or family. And since it's such a small community here, no one has relatives who'd visit that no one knows about. Ed knew just about everyone in town by name - of course, there were a couple kids whose names always managed to escape him, but those two were also pretty quiet - and by extension knew a majority of the significant relatives who do visit.

The man's probably just passing through, I'm over thinking this one stupid thing. He told himself. But that didn't change his gut's disagreement in that matter. So he chose to ignore his gut for once and simply see reason. There was very, very little chance that this man was significant. End of story. He was just being paranoid again.

Right?

Sorry about the delay here, guys. Got very distracted with things and this was a weird chapter to write.
And so I leave you guys on an "if"y note with Edward confused. Oh well.
Yes, I'm aware this chapter is completely Ed-centeric. So now you guys can wonder what the hell I did with Allen, Lucille, and Irene. Don't worry, they're coming back into the picture next chapter.

So yes, now we can see just how much Edward's really effected by PTSD. You can kinda get the idea just how bad it is based on this chapter. I will also add a bit of a warning that his flashbacks aren't italicized like what normal people do. This is because Edward can't even tell if they're real, so this just kinda blurs out that line there so show how confusing and jarring those can really be.

Anyways, thanks for reading. Don't forget to review so that this can get better!