Orphans of Ishbal - Winry/Scar - PG-13
Some ridiculously depressing and angsty fic for snakecharmerfox's birthday. I do apologize for how depressing this is, but the prompt you gave me lended itself to angst and I'm not really in a mood to write anything happy, so.... enjoy. Takes place somewhere around episode 24 and is technically AU.
Oh, and we're going back into Super No Spoilers Mode, so everything is going to have massive spoiler warnings and whatnot again.
Title: Orphans Of Ishbal
Author: theladyfeylene
Fandom: FMA
Pairing: Winry/Scar
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1003
Spoilers: Episodes 3 - 24
Summary: She knew that what she was doing was technically wrong, and she knew that she'd be in trouble if she were caught, but Winry found she didn't really care.
“You should have your wounds looked at.”
Winry stood, hands on her hips, frowning in a manner that bespoke irritation and stubbornness rather than concern. She was not a girl - woman, really, as she had passed her sixteenth birthday - given to overly kind sentiments or fawning. And certainly not for the surly Ishbalan renegade that sat in the alleyway, blood seeping onto his bandages from re-opened wounds.
“Leave them,” was the gruff response. Winry’s frown deepened and she moved to kneel beside the wounded man.
“You’re going to lose too much blood,” she protested, the same tone of irritation still ringing clear in her voice.
“I have suffered worse. I have no need to be tended by an Amestrian girl-child.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.” Winry pulled aside the faded jacket that still graced Scar’s form, exposing the blood-stained linen. Scar jerked away from her touch, red eyes narrowing in anger.
“Do not touch me!”
“Stop fussing,” Winry prompted. She bit her tongue, silencing a snide remark that would only anger the man more. But he was acting as though a State Alchemist had knelt to help him.
“I said leave it!”
“And I said I’m going to look at your wounds. Really, I’m not your enemy.”
“You keep company with alchemists.” And that seemed to be enough for Scar. Winry frowned and let her hands fall away, her features twisting with rage and indignation.
“You don’t know anything about me!” she snapped, small pale hands balled into fists against the black fabric of her skirt. Scar said nothing, only leaned his head back against the wall and sucked in a sharp breath.
“There is nothing to know,” he said, presently, when whatever spasm of pain that gripped him had passed.
“My parents were killed in Ishbal,” Winry said, at length, looking down at her hands. It had taken much of her strength to say that, to admit it, to share that small and private scrap of herself with this man.
“Hmph. Soldiers.”
“Doctors!” The word flew from Winry’s lips as though coaxed by torture, and she felt the hot prickling of tears in her eyes. Scar looked at her then, stone hard features impassive as he watched the slim blond girl struggle with her sobs. He shifted after a moment, pulling the edge of his jacket further from his torso. It was as though something about his manner shifted, softened, though his expression remained the same.
“If you’re going to see to the wound, do it now.”
Winry looked up. Her eyes were still wet and bright, a brilliant blue in the harsh light of a nearby street lamp. She nodded and pulled aside the bandage, unwinding it slowly and carefully. It clung to skin caked with dried blood, and Scar made soft grunts with each tug on his flesh. From her purse Winry pulled a fresh strip of bandages, kept there for emergencies. She eased the jacket off of Scar’s shoulders, and tensed some, embarrassed to be pulling of the clothing of a strange man. She couldn’t help but let her fingers linger some over the well defined muscles of Scar’s shoulders. She was sixteen, and despite all she knew of the Ishbalan before her, he was a striking and well formed man. Her stomach fluttered some, her young body reacting to naked and smooth flesh. A flush stained her cheeks and she dropped her eyes quickly, setting to work before she made a fool of herself.
She wound the bandages tightly around the wound, neither of them speaking as she worked. She knew she was aiding a criminal, she knew was in trouble if she was caught, but she couldn’t look upon Scar and call him an evil or a cruel man. She supposed that if she had the means for revenge against her parents death, she may very well kill just as he had. She understood all too well the pain and confusion and need to act that came with losing loved ones. Scar was nothing but what the soldiers had made him, another throw away forgotten in the aftermath of war. Another casualty that still walked, alive in body if not in soul.
“There.” She tied off the bandages, the pressure stopping the flow of blood. Her hands lingered against the flat plane of his abdomen, the muscles there tight and tense. A hand briefly covered hers, as though in thanks. She resisted the urge to run her fingers along Scar’s calloused palm and broad, wide fingers. “That should hold until somebody who knows what they’re doing can look at it.”
Scar nodded, stretching some as though to test her handiwork. Winry shivered, the drizzle soaking through her thin jacket and chilling her. Scar stood, bracing himself against the wall.
“You should go,” he said, glancing down at her as she sat hugging herself against the cold. Winry nodded, and moved to stand. But Scar was before her, the discarded yellow jacket held in his hands. Without a word he wrapped it around her shoulders, expression still hard and distant as granite. But there was something in his eyes, a tinge of some foreign warmth that seemed out of place on his rugged features.
“You… have my thanks,” he said, tersely, and Winry felt the tears come again. She tensed as she felt strong, broad hands on her shoulders. Scar’s eyes were closed, and the rain obscured her vision and blurred his face but she could still see all too clearly the look of pain that flashed across his features. The hands on her shoulders tightened, squeezing her with a force that almost hurt her.
“What…?” She started to speak, her hair hanging into her eyes, heavy and water logged.
“We are both orphans of Ishbal,” was the only reply, and then the hands on her shoulders released and Scar was gone, leaving Winry alone in the alley with nothing but the memory of his hands on her body and his skin beneath her fingers.
Oh, and we're going back into Super No Spoilers Mode, so everything is going to have massive spoiler warnings and whatnot again.
Title: Orphans Of Ishbal
Author: theladyfeylene
Fandom: FMA
Pairing: Winry/Scar
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1003
Spoilers: Episodes 3 - 24
Summary: She knew that what she was doing was technically wrong, and she knew that she'd be in trouble if she were caught, but Winry found she didn't really care.
“You should have your wounds looked at.”
Winry stood, hands on her hips, frowning in a manner that bespoke irritation and stubbornness rather than concern. She was not a girl - woman, really, as she had passed her sixteenth birthday - given to overly kind sentiments or fawning. And certainly not for the surly Ishbalan renegade that sat in the alleyway, blood seeping onto his bandages from re-opened wounds.
“Leave them,” was the gruff response. Winry’s frown deepened and she moved to kneel beside the wounded man.
“You’re going to lose too much blood,” she protested, the same tone of irritation still ringing clear in her voice.
“I have suffered worse. I have no need to be tended by an Amestrian girl-child.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.” Winry pulled aside the faded jacket that still graced Scar’s form, exposing the blood-stained linen. Scar jerked away from her touch, red eyes narrowing in anger.
“Do not touch me!”
“Stop fussing,” Winry prompted. She bit her tongue, silencing a snide remark that would only anger the man more. But he was acting as though a State Alchemist had knelt to help him.
“I said leave it!”
“And I said I’m going to look at your wounds. Really, I’m not your enemy.”
“You keep company with alchemists.” And that seemed to be enough for Scar. Winry frowned and let her hands fall away, her features twisting with rage and indignation.
“You don’t know anything about me!” she snapped, small pale hands balled into fists against the black fabric of her skirt. Scar said nothing, only leaned his head back against the wall and sucked in a sharp breath.
“There is nothing to know,” he said, presently, when whatever spasm of pain that gripped him had passed.
“My parents were killed in Ishbal,” Winry said, at length, looking down at her hands. It had taken much of her strength to say that, to admit it, to share that small and private scrap of herself with this man.
“Hmph. Soldiers.”
“Doctors!” The word flew from Winry’s lips as though coaxed by torture, and she felt the hot prickling of tears in her eyes. Scar looked at her then, stone hard features impassive as he watched the slim blond girl struggle with her sobs. He shifted after a moment, pulling the edge of his jacket further from his torso. It was as though something about his manner shifted, softened, though his expression remained the same.
“If you’re going to see to the wound, do it now.”
Winry looked up. Her eyes were still wet and bright, a brilliant blue in the harsh light of a nearby street lamp. She nodded and pulled aside the bandage, unwinding it slowly and carefully. It clung to skin caked with dried blood, and Scar made soft grunts with each tug on his flesh. From her purse Winry pulled a fresh strip of bandages, kept there for emergencies. She eased the jacket off of Scar’s shoulders, and tensed some, embarrassed to be pulling of the clothing of a strange man. She couldn’t help but let her fingers linger some over the well defined muscles of Scar’s shoulders. She was sixteen, and despite all she knew of the Ishbalan before her, he was a striking and well formed man. Her stomach fluttered some, her young body reacting to naked and smooth flesh. A flush stained her cheeks and she dropped her eyes quickly, setting to work before she made a fool of herself.
She wound the bandages tightly around the wound, neither of them speaking as she worked. She knew she was aiding a criminal, she knew was in trouble if she was caught, but she couldn’t look upon Scar and call him an evil or a cruel man. She supposed that if she had the means for revenge against her parents death, she may very well kill just as he had. She understood all too well the pain and confusion and need to act that came with losing loved ones. Scar was nothing but what the soldiers had made him, another throw away forgotten in the aftermath of war. Another casualty that still walked, alive in body if not in soul.
“There.” She tied off the bandages, the pressure stopping the flow of blood. Her hands lingered against the flat plane of his abdomen, the muscles there tight and tense. A hand briefly covered hers, as though in thanks. She resisted the urge to run her fingers along Scar’s calloused palm and broad, wide fingers. “That should hold until somebody who knows what they’re doing can look at it.”
Scar nodded, stretching some as though to test her handiwork. Winry shivered, the drizzle soaking through her thin jacket and chilling her. Scar stood, bracing himself against the wall.
“You should go,” he said, glancing down at her as she sat hugging herself against the cold. Winry nodded, and moved to stand. But Scar was before her, the discarded yellow jacket held in his hands. Without a word he wrapped it around her shoulders, expression still hard and distant as granite. But there was something in his eyes, a tinge of some foreign warmth that seemed out of place on his rugged features.
“You… have my thanks,” he said, tersely, and Winry felt the tears come again. She tensed as she felt strong, broad hands on her shoulders. Scar’s eyes were closed, and the rain obscured her vision and blurred his face but she could still see all too clearly the look of pain that flashed across his features. The hands on her shoulders tightened, squeezing her with a force that almost hurt her.
“What…?” She started to speak, her hair hanging into her eyes, heavy and water logged.
“We are both orphans of Ishbal,” was the only reply, and then the hands on her shoulders released and Scar was gone, leaving Winry alone in the alley with nothing but the memory of his hands on her body and his skin beneath her fingers.