Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. I'm not anywhere near as clever as Arakawa-sensei.

Night of Tears

That day was a happy one – full of noise and laughter and celebration. Ed and Al were welcomed with Den's yaps and Granny's hot stew and my mingled tears and reprimands, and it wasn't until later that I calmed down and baked the fattest, richest, most scrumptious apple pie that had ever come out of our oven. Those idiotic brothers were obviously famished, even after Granny's stew, and trying not to show it, so I just slammed the tray on the table and watched as they completely lost the little table manners they had and devoured it – down to the last crumb. I told them off for the umpteenth time, but I was happy for them.

That night, tired out from all the partying, I sat on the steps outside the front door with my arm around Den and watched the stars wink at me from the deep blue sky. And I began to think nostalgic thoughts and sad thoughts and lonely thoughts – thoughts about childhood and journeys and battles lost – and suddenly I felt so miserable that I shifted closer to Den and stroked his coarse fur for consolation.

Den opened one eye and looked inquiringly at me, as only dogs can. I sighed, not knowing what else to do, and sighed again, before saying aloud, "I feel so useless, Den. All this time, Ed and Al have been fighting to the death, trying to get their bodies back, while I've been sitting here, doing nothing but fixing automail. They're happy now, but they've been through so much that I just want to . . ."

And I couldn't say what it was that I wanted to do, because a lump was forming in my throat and tears were welling in my eyes. With no Ed to tell me off, I let my emotions take over – I cried for all the hardships Ed and Al had faced, for all the traumas they had experienced; I cried because I knew Ed and Al weren't crying themselves and tried not to for my sake. I buried my head in Den's neck as the tears flowed freely.

Then I heard soft footsteps behind me, footsteps that went clunk, tap, clunk, tap instead of an even tip, tap, tip, tap. I knew them well from years of automail maintenance, but I pretended not to notice. I probably would not have heard but for the left leg that gave it away.

Despite this, I could not help giving a little start when he spoke, in that familiar voice that made my heartbeat quicken. "Hey, Winry. Why are you crying again?"

He sat down beside me and I lifted my head to look at him. Though the tears still welling in my eyes made everything a blur of colours, the gold hair and equally luminescent eyes before me were unmistakable in the pale moonlight.

"I'm allowed to cry now, aren't I?" I said, trying to stem the flow of tears. "You said that the next time I cried, it'd be out of happiness. You didn't say anything about the time after that."

Ed folded his arms across his chest and turned away from me. "You're infuriating."

I smiled in spite of myself. The pleasant breeze picked up and caused my hair to twist and tangle, the floaty strands tumbling over each other. Glancing at Ed, I suddenly noticed how the emaciation of his right arm stood out as his sleeves were blown backwards and pressed against his skin. Fresh tears sprang up in my eyes.

He looked up as I gave an involuntary sob. "What now?"

"Your . . . arm . . ." I managed to whisper. Then the fat, salty droplets spilled down my cheeks and I had to bite down on my bottom lip to restrain myself from bawling raucously and waking Granny.

Ed lifted his right arm and flexed his fingers. Every bone stood out clear and sharp in the moonlight. "What, aren't you happy that I got it back? Or were you crying earlier because you'd never get to make prosthetic arms for me anymore? Maybe you should see the doctor about automail addiction."

He stood up, but I grabbed his sleeve and held on fast. "Ed!" My voice sounded painfully beseeching. "Please. I didn't mean it that way. I really am happy that you can escape half the pain of automail. I really am happy that Al can sleep and cry and feel now. Please. Don't go."

He scowled, but didn't resist. I pulled him down and made him sit. On my other side, Den, who had been snuggled against me and motionless until now, fidgeted and made a small, whining noise.

"Is it cold? Do you want to go inside?"

His eyes seemed to answer in the affirmative, so I withdrew my arm from around him and let him pad softly to the door and slip inside. His footsteps, like Ed's, were quiet, except for the regular clunk of automail.

"Ed," I said when Den had gone. "Where's Al? Shouldn't you be with him?"

"He's asleep," Ed answered. "Now that he has his body back, he spends all morning and all afternoon looking forward to the night – in other words, looking forward to sleeping." There was a sort of wistful look in his eyes, as though he wished he too could have that sort of satisfaction.

"And speaking of sleeping," I said, getting to my feet, "it's late, isn't it? Shouldn't we go to bed now?"

He didn't object, and allowed me to take his hand and lead him into the house. It had gotten very cold outside, so I was glad to shut the door behind me and let myself be enveloped by the warmth of the cottage. Treading carefully, Ed and I crossed the small, cramped kitchen and tiptoed into the living room. It was quiet. I couldn't hear Granny's snores, so I wondered if she was awake. For a moment I amused myself by imagining her standing on her toes and trying to peer over the windowsill.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. I tugged on Ed's sleeve, and we silently proceeded up the stairs. The worn wood creaked and groaned slightly with every step. I didn't know why I was so keen to move as noiselessly as possible, but I was nevertheless relieved when we reached the landing. I peered into Ed and Al's room as we passed, and, seeing Al fast asleep with his sheets tucked in around him, kept on going. At the next door, I turned sharply and steered Ed into the room with me.

My room was not exactly that of a typical teenage girl. There was no flowery bedspread, no dirty tops and frilly skirts strewn across the floor – just the plainest bed imaginable, a chair and a wardrobe beside it, and a shelf full of books about engineering and medicine. Atop the shelf sat a framed picture of my parents and Granny and me.

"Ed," I said, "I know I said to go to bed, but I just want to know what happened in that – that battle. The battle that ended everything. I promise this is the last favour I'll ask of you today."

He sighed. "I'm tired, Winry."

"I know. But I need you to tell me." I fixed him with a determined stare.

Several minutes seemed to pass as he frowned reproachfully at me and I returned his gaze with my hands on my hips. Out of the corner of my eyes I could see the light streaming in from the window and falling on my bed, creating a small patch of brightness that threw the creased bedspread into relief.

Ed heaved another great sigh and shuffled towards the bed, his hands in his pockets. As we sat side by side, gazing through the parted curtains at the moon which shone so brightly above the distant hills silhouetted against its light, he recounted the events of the Promised Day. I listened in awed silence, but when he had finished, I ventured to ask, "So your dad is . . . he's dead?"

"Yeah . . . he is."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's not as if I liked him much when he was alive."

"How about now?"

He kept his eyes fixed on some point in the distance, not answering.

I looked at him – really looked at him. I took in his robust and stalwart figure, the composed way in which he held himself, his fiery eyes – so clear, so unsullied by trauma . . . and yet so vulnerable. A powerful and utterly indescribable sensation came over me, and I reached out and hugged him, briefly but firmly.

When I drew away, his cheeks were slightly pink, as far as I could tell in the semi-darkness. He opened his mouth as though to ask me what I was doing, but seemed to reconsider and said simply, "I've done you a favour – now you have to do me one."

I allowed myself a small smile. "Okay. Put your head on my lap, and I'll sing you a lullaby."

He blinked a couple of times, but did as he was told. I pulled the sheets up to his chin.

"Wait," he said, looking up at me. "I don't want a lullaby. Tell me about . . . about automail."

I laughed. "That's just like you, wanting to fall asleep thinking about science. Well, okay then. Automail," I began, "was developed by an Amestrian scientist in 1884. He figured out how to connect nerves in the human body to artificial nerves in a prosthetic limb. The first model of an automail leg looked hideous – nothing like a human leg at all. But the quality of steel improved over the years and automail engineers decided that steel with slightly more than one per cent of carbon worked well. As you know, places like Rush Valley boomed with budding engineers from all over the country.

"Then, in 1911, a girl who lived in a small country town made a steel arm and leg for her childhood friend, who went on to become the youngest State Alchemist in history. He even foiled the military's plans and saved the entire country from being obliterated, and really ought to thank the girl for what she did . . ." My voice trailed off. Ed's eyes were closed, and his hair fluttered over his face as he exhaled.

I reached down and gently loosened his plait. His hair tickled my knees as it came free. I sat watching him for a while, before lifting his head off my lap and resting it on the bed, drawing the curtains and lying down beside him. I rolled over so that my back faced him and whispered, "Goodnight, idiot."

As I closed my eyes, I heard him mutter, "Stop it, Winry . . . I don't want to drink milk . . ."

I smiled into my pillow and let sleep take over my weary body.

Thanks for sparing a few minutes to read this! It'd be great if you could give me a review, but I'm not trying to force anyone. I'd really appreciate it, though!

TsubameTrebleClef