I drabbled again, and it's like OMG Angst. 0_0
What the hell is wrong with me? Post-series AU, what if Ed's desperate actions had failed? What then? Please feel free to spork at will.
She had long suspected that things had been reduced to an ingrained habit.
All the words were right, all the motions. The inflections of speech. The optimism still firmly in place. But how much of it did he actually believe and how much of it has wormed its way into his very being in such a fashion as to simply be there. Convictions of a past that doggedly dragged him kicking and screaming into the future.
She has long suspected that things had been reduced to an ingrained sense of obligation.
Not that she really had any; surely, it’s only she’d done it for so long what else was there? He needed her. She firmly believed this. And so she’d forgone the things in life that make a life. A person to share the things that define existence, like family, home, children. Because she felt he needed her, she hoped he needed her. She clung to this believe like a drowning man clung to a life preserver. Because if she were mistaken everything would spiral out of control and all of this would have been for nothing.
She has long suspected that things had been reduced to a desperation that bored on inertia.
Progress cannot be made when limitations are set in place. He was in a vulnerable position now, as protected as he was. Dangerous situations must be avoided because the fail-safe, the part of him that could make everything alright again was gone. And was she as delusional as he to think it would ever return? It had been years now. The people around them had changed, aged, some had died, and still always at night, a look to the horizon. She always stood back and aways so she didn’t hear the sigh echoing in hollow depths.
She has long suspected this is how she will end her days.
And then what? What will happen then? The world around them was changing. He could not change. The only thing that had ever seem to changed was a flattening of his voice, a deepening that rang dull, like a stone striking a half full can of water. His face was impassive, he couldn’t help it, and it had been that way for countless years and would remain that way for countless more. Was this his hell then, for his sin committed? When would it ever be enough? Was this her hell then for harboring this sinner that on one else could understand?
In this year of her 40th birthday she stood back and aways, noting the reflection of the porch light on his dull gray skin and listened to his sigh, that of a man whose hope was dead but dredged up at the appropriate time each evening, it’s corpse as bleak and empty as the low sigh that rang in his empty shell.
“Let’s go back in Alphonse,” Winry said tiredly, “It’s cold out here and I don’t think he’s coming home tonight.”
The armour nodded, the ratted remains of it’s panache fluttered briefly in a passing breeze.
“Maybe” she said, suspecting as she long had how futile the sentiment was, “he’ll be along tomorrow night.”
Alphonse followed her silently into the house, the creak of old joints answering the crickets as the moon slipped high.
She had long suspected that things had been reduced to an ingrained habit.
All the words were right, all the motions. The inflections of speech. The optimism still firmly in place. But how much of it did he actually believe and how much of it has wormed its way into his very being in such a fashion as to simply be there. Convictions of a past that doggedly dragged him kicking and screaming into the future.
She has long suspected that things had been reduced to an ingrained sense of obligation.
Not that she really had any; surely, it’s only she’d done it for so long what else was there? He needed her. She firmly believed this. And so she’d forgone the things in life that make a life. A person to share the things that define existence, like family, home, children. Because she felt he needed her, she hoped he needed her. She clung to this believe like a drowning man clung to a life preserver. Because if she were mistaken everything would spiral out of control and all of this would have been for nothing.
She has long suspected that things had been reduced to a desperation that bored on inertia.
Progress cannot be made when limitations are set in place. He was in a vulnerable position now, as protected as he was. Dangerous situations must be avoided because the fail-safe, the part of him that could make everything alright again was gone. And was she as delusional as he to think it would ever return? It had been years now. The people around them had changed, aged, some had died, and still always at night, a look to the horizon. She always stood back and aways so she didn’t hear the sigh echoing in hollow depths.
She has long suspected this is how she will end her days.
And then what? What will happen then? The world around them was changing. He could not change. The only thing that had ever seem to changed was a flattening of his voice, a deepening that rang dull, like a stone striking a half full can of water. His face was impassive, he couldn’t help it, and it had been that way for countless years and would remain that way for countless more. Was this his hell then, for his sin committed? When would it ever be enough? Was this her hell then for harboring this sinner that on one else could understand?
In this year of her 40th birthday she stood back and aways, noting the reflection of the porch light on his dull gray skin and listened to his sigh, that of a man whose hope was dead but dredged up at the appropriate time each evening, it’s corpse as bleak and empty as the low sigh that rang in his empty shell.
“Let’s go back in Alphonse,” Winry said tiredly, “It’s cold out here and I don’t think he’s coming home tonight.”
The armour nodded, the ratted remains of it’s panache fluttered briefly in a passing breeze.
“Maybe” she said, suspecting as she long had how futile the sentiment was, “he’ll be along tomorrow night.”
Alphonse followed her silently into the house, the creak of old joints answering the crickets as the moon slipped high.