"Hey!" said Winry brightly, looking up from a mess of papers and books spread out over a table. She stuck her pencil behind her ear and propped her elbows on the table. "What's up?"
Edward swallowed. There it was again -- that damned fluttery feeling. He climbed the rest of the way into the treehouse, and grinned stupidly. "The sky?"
And then he wanted to smack himself. When had he become such an idiot?
"I... erm..." he took a step, and his left leg made a subtle, grinding sound. He winced, and prepared for impact, as he mumbled, "I got some sand in my automail."
Winry frowned. "If you'd stay off the beach maybe you wouldn't have so much of a problem with that," she said, muttering, but she didn't fly into a rage as much as she might have ten months or so ago. "Well, come on then, let's fix it before you get half the island stuck in there."
"It's bad enough I can't go in the ocean, I'm supposed to avoid the beach, too?" Edward crossed his arms, a bit indignant as she sat down in one of the chairs.
"Well, you've got a choice," said Winry, plunking Edward into a chair and gathering up her tools. "Either stay off the beach unless you have to be on it, or get lots of sand down in there."
"Mm." Edward replied -- his usual non-committal response. "There's gotta be some other solution. I mean, what exactly do you use to clean it out anyway? Maybe I could learn to do that at least."
He leaned back in the chair, fingers gripping the edge of the seat. He glanced up at the ceiling. "...I like the beach," he whispered, "there's something really calming about it."
"You could always watch what I'm doing," said Winry. "You might be able to even work on your leg now and then, but I think you'll always need me to do your arm." She dragged her toolbox over, which was half full of tools and half full of what looked like random pieces of junk, and peered at his knee. "If I look in there and find seaweed or something, you're in big trouble, mister."
Edward looked down at Winry, and for a moment felt anxious. He knew damned well there was no seaweed in there, but something about the way Winry warned and scolded, he still felt he should fear that there might be.
"I doubt I could handle more than oiling or cleaning," said Edward. "I understand chemical composition... not mechanical composition. And don't even get me started on the wires."
"It's not that hard, Edward," she said, setting to work on his leg and launching into a very complicated explanation of what she was doing and what part connected to what. She didn't really mind him not knowing, though. It was nice to be needed, and for all that she yelled at him about messing up his automail, she liked fixing it.
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And then he wanted to smack himself. When had he become such an idiot?
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He paused. "...it's not like I do it on purpose."
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He leaned back in the chair, fingers gripping the edge of the seat. He glanced up at the ceiling. "...I like the beach," he whispered, "there's something really calming about it."
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"I doubt I could handle more than oiling or cleaning," said Edward. "I understand chemical composition... not mechanical composition. And don't even get me started on the wires."
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