(no subject)
I really don't know what to say. Title and cut text from this poem.
as in an empty station
ed/winry/al, r, 1520 words
Al comes to find her that day, to tell her how he won the right to marry her, fair and square, and how he wrestled Ed to the ground 'til he screamed for mercy.
"Good job," she says first, grinning. Then she swats him on the back of the head (with her hand; they're outside and there isn't a wrench handy).
"What was that for?" he cries, indignant.
"For being an idiot," Winry explains. "How am I supposed to pick just one of you?"
Al realizes the error of his ways, and that's the last time he and Ed fight over Winry. No point to it, really, if both of them always win.
-
She kisses Ed, once, when they're all sprawled out on the ground and mostly asleep. Ed isn't snoring, for once, so she thinks it's okay if she leans down and does it, just this once. She mainly gets the corner of his mouth, and his skin is salty from where they'd been playing around earlier, but.
It's nice, she supposes, before she drifts off. This is nice, being part of her own make-shift family, and so is the adequate warmth of having a sleeping boy on either side of her.
When she wakes up, of course, she feels horrible about it, and decides that the only way to make it right is to kiss Al, too. She pulls him behind a tree and pecks him quickly on the cheek.
"What was that--" Al starts, but Winry silences him when she presses her lips firmly on his jaw (he moved, you see).
"For being an idiot," she says darkly, and runs to catch up with Ed. Al stands there for a moment, not really sure whether he's been insulted or not, before he realizes that they're leaving him again, so he'd better hurry or he's going to have to walk home by himself.
-
She loves the look of automail. So sleek and effortlessly beautiful and without blemish, so much more perfect than anything human. She's good at working with it, too; it's obvious from the calluses on her hands, the grease stains on her coveralls.
But not here. Not on Ed. She doesn't know how she made it through the surgery, because just thinking about the look on his face makes her stomach curl. So she sits in a corner and watches him under his dim halo of artificial light. His new arm gleams, and she shudders.
"Winry," he says softly, and she stands up. Her legs feel like they're going to give out so she plops herself into the chair beside his bed, pulls her knees up to her chin. He looks so small, underneath all that whiteness.
"I'm sorry," she blurts, and trains her eyes on the floor. "I-I hurt you. It's my fault, and. Why would you let me do that to you, anyway?" The room is simply blurring around her, because there's no way that her cheeks are wet, not now-she has to be strong now, for all of them.
Ed's sigh is long and tired. "Damn it," he mumbles, "Why are you crying? I didn't let you do anything. I asked you for help and you-ow, shit!"
Winry's already up, smacking his hands away from the bandages. "Don't try to sit up," she instructs, "you'll hurt yourself."
"I'm fine," Ed says, scowling, but Winry's pinning down his good arm and it's kind of hard for him to fight it. He pokes her in the side and she makes an embarrassingly squeaky noise, falls to the bed, defeated. She rests her head next to Ed's on the pillow and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes.
"I'm still sorry," she mutters, and leans into him, gingerly.
"You're still stupid, too," Ed says dryly, and stretches his arm out behind her head.
"Not as stupid as you are."
"Nope," Ed agrees. "There's no beating me."
-
Al can never quite find the words to say what he means to. It's better to just do things, he's found, but he's not quite good at that, either; he thinks it might be this body, adjusting to a new set of impulses, or a lack thereof, and thinking more than anything because his thoughts seem to reverberate against metal.
Ed knocks on Al's chest playfully, saying, "I might have to put a pillow in there-all this carrying just seems to end up with me getting wet." But that's just the way Ed has to deal with it. Al's seen the way Ed looks at him sometimes, like he's ashamed. Al doesn't blame him. He's just never really found the right time to say it.
Winry doesn't mind that he's hollow. "You were always my favorite place to hide," she yawns, smiling faintly. He'll keep her hidden if she wants him to, he decides, sometime between when he carries her upstairs to her room and when she grabs his gauntlet as he turns to leave.
-
"I don't like you two running around and getting hurt like this, you know," Winry scolds while she tunes up his leg. Ed knows her disapproval well, and if he ever doubts it, there are plenty of bruises to remind him just how much she worries.
"It's really not fair. If you're going to act like a moron, the least you could do is stop by before my work is in complete shambles." She rests her chin on his other knee and looks up at him. "It's like you're ripping my heart out screw by screw."
"I'm pretty sure your heart doesn't have screws in it," he says, although he really wouldn't be surprised.
She flicks his thigh, trying to scowl but mostly smiling. "It's a figure of speech, you ass."
"I'm not the one being unnecessarily violent here."
"I'm attempting to beat some sense into you," Winry nods solemnly. "I've been told it's a lost cause, but I refuse to give up hope."
"Until you actually kill me, that is."
"It may come sooner than you think, if you don't stop breaking my automail," she threatens, poking him hard in the chest. Ed winces but laughs, and pulls her up off her knees.
"I missed you, too," he says quietly, and Winry is far too stunned to yell at him when he gets up and goes to find Al, even though she wasn't quite done yet.
-
"What will you do when we get our bodies back?"
It's a question they're both familiar with, from years of missing and wanting and what-if-ing. Ed usually says something about strangling Mustang with two bare (real) hands or eating pie, which are both pretty good answers, and probably very true.
Al thinks that the first thing he'd really do is give his brother a hug, try and remember how it feels to have that kind of warmth surrounding you and to see if he'd be shorter than Ed or not. He wants to know if Ed still smells the same, like old books and chalk, and if he'd be shocked or hug Al back. If maybe he might give the rarity of a smile, a real one.
But that's silly, so he just seconds the pie.
-
And then one day he wakes up, with bones and blood and skin, like he'd never known anything else. He asks Winry where Ed went, and why she looks so scared.
-
He gets used to seeing familiar faces. He has to look at his brother's face, the one he's been trying to get back for years, every day-a walking reminder of what he's without. But Alphons Heiderich does not have a brother.
Every morning, Not-Gracia waves him off and he sees Not-Hughes in the street. There's a woman at the pub that looks like his mother, and he dies a little when she smiles at him.
He never finds another Winry, though. He thinks maybe it's to remind him that he's not quite finished, not yet.
-
Al remembers his brother in snippets, mostly. Things like having two good legs and using them, and long train rides.
He wakes up one morning and thinks he can see the exact shade of Ed's hair, only to look down and find Winry asleep on his chest.
-
Kissing Al now is not so very different than kissing him all that time ago. It's usually accompanied by a smack in the head and it feels oddly off-balance, which, more often than not, leads to the not-quite-unpleasantness of falling over onto the nearest flat surface. There's the same small guilt, too, like there's something she'd been leaving behind.
It's lonelier, maybe. Even though Al is warm and soft and pliant and there's an oldness about him that translates through everything he does. She knows that Al feels it, too. He catches her eye one day, as she's wiping sweat and grease off her brow, and he says the only thing that could possibly reassure them.
Next time (and there will be a next time), they're not going to let him go.
as in an empty station
ed/winry/al, r, 1520 words
Al comes to find her that day, to tell her how he won the right to marry her, fair and square, and how he wrestled Ed to the ground 'til he screamed for mercy.
"Good job," she says first, grinning. Then she swats him on the back of the head (with her hand; they're outside and there isn't a wrench handy).
"What was that for?" he cries, indignant.
"For being an idiot," Winry explains. "How am I supposed to pick just one of you?"
Al realizes the error of his ways, and that's the last time he and Ed fight over Winry. No point to it, really, if both of them always win.
-
She kisses Ed, once, when they're all sprawled out on the ground and mostly asleep. Ed isn't snoring, for once, so she thinks it's okay if she leans down and does it, just this once. She mainly gets the corner of his mouth, and his skin is salty from where they'd been playing around earlier, but.
It's nice, she supposes, before she drifts off. This is nice, being part of her own make-shift family, and so is the adequate warmth of having a sleeping boy on either side of her.
When she wakes up, of course, she feels horrible about it, and decides that the only way to make it right is to kiss Al, too. She pulls him behind a tree and pecks him quickly on the cheek.
"What was that--" Al starts, but Winry silences him when she presses her lips firmly on his jaw (he moved, you see).
"For being an idiot," she says darkly, and runs to catch up with Ed. Al stands there for a moment, not really sure whether he's been insulted or not, before he realizes that they're leaving him again, so he'd better hurry or he's going to have to walk home by himself.
-
She loves the look of automail. So sleek and effortlessly beautiful and without blemish, so much more perfect than anything human. She's good at working with it, too; it's obvious from the calluses on her hands, the grease stains on her coveralls.
But not here. Not on Ed. She doesn't know how she made it through the surgery, because just thinking about the look on his face makes her stomach curl. So she sits in a corner and watches him under his dim halo of artificial light. His new arm gleams, and she shudders.
"Winry," he says softly, and she stands up. Her legs feel like they're going to give out so she plops herself into the chair beside his bed, pulls her knees up to her chin. He looks so small, underneath all that whiteness.
"I'm sorry," she blurts, and trains her eyes on the floor. "I-I hurt you. It's my fault, and. Why would you let me do that to you, anyway?" The room is simply blurring around her, because there's no way that her cheeks are wet, not now-she has to be strong now, for all of them.
Ed's sigh is long and tired. "Damn it," he mumbles, "Why are you crying? I didn't let you do anything. I asked you for help and you-ow, shit!"
Winry's already up, smacking his hands away from the bandages. "Don't try to sit up," she instructs, "you'll hurt yourself."
"I'm fine," Ed says, scowling, but Winry's pinning down his good arm and it's kind of hard for him to fight it. He pokes her in the side and she makes an embarrassingly squeaky noise, falls to the bed, defeated. She rests her head next to Ed's on the pillow and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes.
"I'm still sorry," she mutters, and leans into him, gingerly.
"You're still stupid, too," Ed says dryly, and stretches his arm out behind her head.
"Not as stupid as you are."
"Nope," Ed agrees. "There's no beating me."
-
Al can never quite find the words to say what he means to. It's better to just do things, he's found, but he's not quite good at that, either; he thinks it might be this body, adjusting to a new set of impulses, or a lack thereof, and thinking more than anything because his thoughts seem to reverberate against metal.
Ed knocks on Al's chest playfully, saying, "I might have to put a pillow in there-all this carrying just seems to end up with me getting wet." But that's just the way Ed has to deal with it. Al's seen the way Ed looks at him sometimes, like he's ashamed. Al doesn't blame him. He's just never really found the right time to say it.
Winry doesn't mind that he's hollow. "You were always my favorite place to hide," she yawns, smiling faintly. He'll keep her hidden if she wants him to, he decides, sometime between when he carries her upstairs to her room and when she grabs his gauntlet as he turns to leave.
-
"I don't like you two running around and getting hurt like this, you know," Winry scolds while she tunes up his leg. Ed knows her disapproval well, and if he ever doubts it, there are plenty of bruises to remind him just how much she worries.
"It's really not fair. If you're going to act like a moron, the least you could do is stop by before my work is in complete shambles." She rests her chin on his other knee and looks up at him. "It's like you're ripping my heart out screw by screw."
"I'm pretty sure your heart doesn't have screws in it," he says, although he really wouldn't be surprised.
She flicks his thigh, trying to scowl but mostly smiling. "It's a figure of speech, you ass."
"I'm not the one being unnecessarily violent here."
"I'm attempting to beat some sense into you," Winry nods solemnly. "I've been told it's a lost cause, but I refuse to give up hope."
"Until you actually kill me, that is."
"It may come sooner than you think, if you don't stop breaking my automail," she threatens, poking him hard in the chest. Ed winces but laughs, and pulls her up off her knees.
"I missed you, too," he says quietly, and Winry is far too stunned to yell at him when he gets up and goes to find Al, even though she wasn't quite done yet.
-
"What will you do when we get our bodies back?"
It's a question they're both familiar with, from years of missing and wanting and what-if-ing. Ed usually says something about strangling Mustang with two bare (real) hands or eating pie, which are both pretty good answers, and probably very true.
Al thinks that the first thing he'd really do is give his brother a hug, try and remember how it feels to have that kind of warmth surrounding you and to see if he'd be shorter than Ed or not. He wants to know if Ed still smells the same, like old books and chalk, and if he'd be shocked or hug Al back. If maybe he might give the rarity of a smile, a real one.
But that's silly, so he just seconds the pie.
-
And then one day he wakes up, with bones and blood and skin, like he'd never known anything else. He asks Winry where Ed went, and why she looks so scared.
-
He gets used to seeing familiar faces. He has to look at his brother's face, the one he's been trying to get back for years, every day-a walking reminder of what he's without. But Alphons Heiderich does not have a brother.
Every morning, Not-Gracia waves him off and he sees Not-Hughes in the street. There's a woman at the pub that looks like his mother, and he dies a little when she smiles at him.
He never finds another Winry, though. He thinks maybe it's to remind him that he's not quite finished, not yet.
-
Al remembers his brother in snippets, mostly. Things like having two good legs and using them, and long train rides.
He wakes up one morning and thinks he can see the exact shade of Ed's hair, only to look down and find Winry asleep on his chest.
-
Kissing Al now is not so very different than kissing him all that time ago. It's usually accompanied by a smack in the head and it feels oddly off-balance, which, more often than not, leads to the not-quite-unpleasantness of falling over onto the nearest flat surface. There's the same small guilt, too, like there's something she'd been leaving behind.
It's lonelier, maybe. Even though Al is warm and soft and pliant and there's an oldness about him that translates through everything he does. She knows that Al feels it, too. He catches her eye one day, as she's wiping sweat and grease off her brow, and he says the only thing that could possibly reassure them.
Next time (and there will be a next time), they're not going to let him go.