The taste of blood and iron was still in his mouth when he woke up in bed with a groan, automatically cradling the limp arm close to his chest. It was wrapped tight, the bandages stretched around his shoulder enough that their edges cut into his somewhat pliable skin. Thank god he woke up on his back. With a very gentle, butterfly-light probing of his collarbone with his free hand, he could feel the swelling, the protruding bone sticking out with his skin barely covering it. He wondered if he could look at it in a mirror somehow, maybe stop by the bathroom and examine the damage... and double-check that his eyes had returned to their natural golden glow. He didn't want to risk trying to look immediately down and injure the bone more, but he could imagine the sight: startlingly purple compared to his usual paleness, warm, and rather sickening. Not the first time he'd seen this type of injury, but it was the first time he'd experienced it.
When Edward's fingers moved up his neck to feel only clean skin there and on his face, he sighed with relief. As much as he did not want to admit it, the sacrifice of pain had been worth it for the blood. He was free of its sticky hold on his skin, he was free of the raw burn of his thirst, he was free of... his gray clothes.
He noticed the difference immediately when his mind caught up with him. Crisp, clean. Unscented. Tight. When he carefully sat up and slid to the edge of his bed, he could see why. Aguilar - the Eagle - hadn't taken his threats lightly. He was clothed in a military uniform, the ones that reminded him of the children in ROTC programs, with a small, dark beret staring at him from his desk. On top of the shirt was a dog tag, stamped boldly with his fake name.
Rubbing his fingers over the words, he frowned. It was a little late to give him a dog tag, considering he'd been dead for over ninety years. Was the real owner of this name still alive? Was there a real owner?
Edward placed his feet squarely on the ground, standing up solidly. Even as much as he had learned last night, he still felt like nothing had been accomplished. The excitement, the adrenaline... all of it had faded away. Somehow, he wasn't surprised when he stumbled to his closet and saw absolutely nothing in it; it just echoed that empty feeling. No shotgun, no bottles, rotting or otherwise.
No pool cue.
There was no polite knocking before the door opened, one of the soldiers from the previous day moving through with complete disinterest. "Cafeteria. Tuck in your shirt, first."
With one arm? But he did it without arguing, awkwardly and struggling at times. He hated the feeling of the sleeve rubbing against his arm in the sling. It felt irritating.
The soldier jerked his head towards the hallway, clearly ready to get him where he needed to go. With only a nod, Edward followed him silently. It barely bothered him to know that these men, too, were entirely immune to his telepathy. At least there was no pain coming from trying to listen.
The cafeteria itself was blissfully free of the warm smell of foods. There was only a small grouping of patients positioned there, on the floor with sponges and buckets of water by their sides. No sign of Bella or Stefan, so he immediately looked away with disinterest. Cleaning up the food fight. Of course. It rather shocked him that all the man guiding him did was point to a chair, pushed off to the side, before leaving.
What, they weren't going to torture him by making him clean in his weakened state? How disappointing.
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When Edward's fingers moved up his neck to feel only clean skin there and on his face, he sighed with relief. As much as he did not want to admit it, the sacrifice of pain had been worth it for the blood. He was free of its sticky hold on his skin, he was free of the raw burn of his thirst, he was free of... his gray clothes.
He noticed the difference immediately when his mind caught up with him. Crisp, clean. Unscented. Tight. When he carefully sat up and slid to the edge of his bed, he could see why. Aguilar - the Eagle - hadn't taken his threats lightly. He was clothed in a military uniform, the ones that reminded him of the children in ROTC programs, with a small, dark beret staring at him from his desk. On top of the shirt was a dog tag, stamped boldly with his fake name.
Rubbing his fingers over the words, he frowned. It was a little late to give him a dog tag, considering he'd been dead for over ninety years. Was the real owner of this name still alive? Was there a real owner?
Edward placed his feet squarely on the ground, standing up solidly. Even as much as he had learned last night, he still felt like nothing had been accomplished. The excitement, the adrenaline... all of it had faded away. Somehow, he wasn't surprised when he stumbled to his closet and saw absolutely nothing in it; it just echoed that empty feeling. No shotgun, no bottles, rotting or otherwise.
No pool cue.
There was no polite knocking before the door opened, one of the soldiers from the previous day moving through with complete disinterest. "Cafeteria. Tuck in your shirt, first."
With one arm? But he did it without arguing, awkwardly and struggling at times. He hated the feeling of the sleeve rubbing against his arm in the sling. It felt irritating.
The soldier jerked his head towards the hallway, clearly ready to get him where he needed to go. With only a nod, Edward followed him silently. It barely bothered him to know that these men, too, were entirely immune to his telepathy. At least there was no pain coming from trying to listen.
The cafeteria itself was blissfully free of the warm smell of foods. There was only a small grouping of patients positioned there, on the floor with sponges and buckets of water by their sides. No sign of Bella or Stefan, so he immediately looked away with disinterest. Cleaning up the food fight. Of course. It rather shocked him that all the man guiding him did was point to a chair, pushed off to the side, before leaving.
What, they weren't going to torture him by making him clean in his weakened state? How disappointing.
[For his soul mate. :(]