Title: Everything I've Ever Had
Rating: T
Summary: His journey over, Ed finds home isn't what he expected and struggles to adjust to his new life. Halloween fic, post-manga, Ed-centric but Ed/Winry.
A/N: This is my annual Halloween fic, set post manga, with spoilers in particular for Chapters 56, 84, and all the stuff that happened up at Briggs. See the author's note at the end for further explanation.

God does not tear down men's homes, he ruins their minds and they tear them down themselves.

-Greek Proverb

There's something wrong with his shoulder.

He's not sure what it is – something is clicking in his port whenever he turns it a certain way, and he thinks he must have really screwed it up this time, judging by the way his arm has been acting lately.

He's honestly starting to get fed up with the whole situation; breaking his automail is nothing new, nor is manning up and soldiering on until he can get it repaired. He's even had periods where he's had to live with no arm at all, so really, Ed's fairly used to dealing with problems with his right limb.

What he's far less used to is being there and ready to work in Winry's workshop, and not having her there to fix it.

He's resolved to be patient, however. To him, it's only fair. Winry'd never once complained while he was on his journey, and only ever did everything in her power to help him and Al, and who is he to deny her a journey of her own?

But he can't deny that this was not how he imagined living his life, once everything was said and done and he actually had a chance to sit down and look around without having to worry about what he'd see over his shoulder.

What he sees is what's in front of him: Risembool, in all of its safe, quiet glory; the Rockbell house, still standing against the horizon, a silent monument to their triumphant return home; Alphonse, frail and delicate, but in a real, relievingly human body.

Himself, easily adjusting to the permanent sacrifice of his limbs.

It's really not that big of a deal to him; his main concern had always been getting Alphonse back his real body. It's not like he couldn't live a fulfilling life with automail, and it's not like the sight was uncommon enough that people gawked – well, except for some kids, but the ones who made a big deal were generally brats anyway, and it was easy for Ed to ignore them. It wasn't like he didn't know how to handle automail, or wasn't aware of every single little complication that could arise from having such limbs. And on top of it, he had the best automail engineers in all of Amestris taking care of him.

Honestly, just seeing Al's gold eyes light up when he walks into the room is more than enough to satisfy him.

He thinks Alphonse is still getting used to the idea though; he always gets such a strange look on his face when Ed talks about it.

Ed tries his best to downplay it, because it's so painfully obvious that Alphonse has to be feeling guilty, and this should be one of the happiest times of his life. He would hate for his brother to be hurting over something he himself really can't get worked up about.

(He'd long suspected that his limbs would be lost to the Gate; maybe his own body could keep a physical body alive for Alphonse, but what could keep two limbs flesh, fully whole, and away from decomposing for that long? If he'd gotten them back, he'd probably have to have then taken off again, they'd have been so rotted.)

Alphonse isn't the only one giving Ed strange looks. Granny always, always, smiles at him, but Ed hasn't told her yet that he can see her smile drop away in his peripheral vision, how the corners of her lips seem weighted down whenever she thinks he's not looking.

A secondary goal from his journey had been to see everyone he loved smile. The emotion Granny looks at him with is painfully sincere, but it's almost baffling to Edward how reluctant she seems to share with him. She's his family; he would do whatever he could for her.

At least she seems to talk to Alphonse; they seem to have a lot of conversations that fall silent when Ed comes into the room, and while it frustrates him that they don't tell him what has to be kept so quiet it also comforts him that at least they're each talking to someone.

Al will come to Ed eventually, this Ed is confident about. There's not much that's ever been kept secret between the brothers.

He consoles himself by reminding himself that a little bit of peace and quiet was exactly what he needed after what he and Al had been through. Risembool is as idyllic as ever, and he couldn't have asked for a better place to retire to. The spring rains have turned the hills dark green and the summer sun has dried up the uncomfortable humidity. Alphonse is blooming, back home at the Rockbell house; there isn't a person in town who doesn't beam at the sight of Al walking through town when he has the strength. The locals still dote on the brothers, even if after smiling at Al they turn a different kind of smile on Ed, their eyes skirting the long sleeves and pants he still wears outside despite the heat. (He's not sure why he bothers, because there isn't a person in town who doesn't know about how he was Granny's youngest patient ever, but still. Showing off the metal limbs seems like it would be throwing it in Al's face.)

It's on one of their walks that the conversation starts. Mrs. Foster waves brightly at the boys, gives Al that pleasant look, gives Ed that inscrutable one, and inquires if they've heard the latest news from the North.

"I've heard they're sending reinforcements up to the border," she informs the boys, one eye keeping watch on her son still wandering away off the path into the grass. Ed can't help noticing how much more her face relaxes as the boy toddles away from him and Al.

Ed raises his eyebrows, but Alphonse laughs. "We've been to Briggs, Mrs. Foster. Any help they send will just be underfoot. I wouldn't worry too much about the northern border; it's fairly secure."

"Well," she sniffs innocently, somehow managing to look down her nose at the boys despite the fact that even tiny Alphonse is a good inch or two above her. "As long as they're sending the infantries and not the state alchemists, right?"

Ed's mouth drops open but Alphonse, remarkably, remains as composed as ever, "They can send whoever they want. It's no business of ours." Then, after a side-long glance at Ed, adds, "We really have to be getting back to the house. Granny will be missing us."

Instead of backing away, Mrs. Foster instead leans in. "How is Ms. Pinako doing, Alphonse? Is she holding up okay?"

"As well as could be expected." Al answers serenely, elbowing Edward back to the middle of the path towards the Rockbell's. "I'll give her your best."

Ed waits until he's a good ten paces away and upwind from Mrs. Foster before he starts talking. "The nerve," he mutters, and when Alphonse doesn't respond Ed merely talks louder. "Doesn't it bug you?"

Al sighs, as if he's been expecting this. "Of course it does, but what do you expect? You were part of the military, and I might as well have been-"

"I meant about Granny and Winry," Ed interrupts.

Al trips, his face going slack. "What do you mean?" he forces out, his eyes wide and unnerved.

"Just because Winry's gone doesn't mean she didn't live here before. She asks about Granny but pretends Winry never existed. She could have at least asked if we'd heard from her."

Al is quiet for a long moment, and Ed instinctively slows his pace. The heat must be getting to him; Al's cheeks are flushing against his pale face, his chest heaving as if he were losing his breath. "Brother," Al says slowly, as if he were picking his words carefully. "Have you heard from Winry?"

"Well… no," Ed admitted, hating to fess up to the fact. He'd be the first to admit that he and Al hadn't always been thoughtful of Winry and Granny when they'd left home, but he had thought that Winry would be more considerate, especially with Al's newly returned form and all. He'd figured she'd be calling all the time to check up on him.

It bothered him that he hadn't heard from her. There was so much he wanted to tell her.

He makes the decision impulsively one day while he's helping Granny move a patient post-surgery. The poor man is still sweating and trembling, but at least his eyes are closed and he's managed to find some momentary respite in sleep; Ed wishes him sweet dreams. The hardest part is still coming.

As he heaves the patient from the surgical gurney onto a stretcher bed, he feels it again: a clicking in his shoulder, like something's snagging in his port. He starts to put one hand up to rub it, but freezes mid-motion when he feels Granny's eyes on him. She's frowning at him, her eyes veiled, and Ed holds out his arm in an offering gesture.

"Do you want to look at it?" he asks, like he's doing her the favor.

Granny grimaces at him, but her eyes don't leave his arm. Winry always looked at it the same appraising way, except Granny's missing the little gleam that was always in Winry's eyes, that one that meant her fingers were itching to get on Ed's limbs. "I don't know what I could do," she says finally, and turns her back to him.

"Look," Ed asserts, and maybe there's more irritation in his voice than he intends, but he's starting to get sick of living with broken automail when he has a mechanic right in front of him. "I know Winry's designed my newer stuff, but that doesn't mean that you wouldn't understand it. How long have you been working with people's limbs, exactly?"

She won't turn back to look at him. Her shoulders are stiff, and she's still holding a tray that's supposed to be sterile. It paints a strained, tense picture in front of him, and Ed has to stop himself from reaching out to her.

He can't help wondering if Granny is always in this sour of a mood after surgeries. Maybe only since Winry left; until Winry left, he supposes, Granny always had some sort of helper, either in the form of her husband, or Winry's father or Winry herself.

"Let me worry about him first," Granny finally says, gesturing back to the poor patient who's started to moan in his sleep. "You're not in any hurry to go anywhere anymore right?"

It's as good as he could expect. Ed chokes on an awkward laugh and rubs the back of his neck. "Guess not."

When she moves to exit the room completely, Ed stops her again, the idea taking hold in his brain so firmly that he struggles to form it into a question. "Would you – could I... learn a little?"

She's still frowning. He can tell even if he can only see a quarter of her face; Granny has so many wrinkles around her cheeks and around her eyes that it's easy to read just from the briefest glance at the smallest part of her face. "About automail?" Granny asks flatly. Ed tries not to be insulted by the incredulous insinuation.

"Yeah?" Ed scrambles to find justification outside of a fleeting interest. "Winry's always telling me I should understand it better since I've had it so long and… like you said, I'm not hurrying off anywhere."

Granny snorts. "Well, you could start the same way you did with alchemy. There's that big bookcase upstairs. Take a glance, and see if you like what you see." With that she leaves the room to clean her tray, leaving Ed alone with the young patient who is still crying out in his sleep.

It's at the turn of the seasons when Mustang comes to visit him; the fall wind has turned chilly and wet leaves have become notorious for letting loose from branches and aiming for any unsuspecting face. Risembool becomes overcast, and the days start to get darker earlier in the season. Freezing rain and icy wind leave Ed's joints permanently aching.

There's still been no word from Winry. Ed would be worried, if only he weren't so sure she was happy, working on her automail. There could be more than one reason for her silence, Ed learns. Most involve travel, and though Ed would be surprised if Garfield encouraged Winry to explore those opportunities – Winry has almost as many customers as he does at the shop, and he hates trying to calm them when they get rowdy – he could easily see Winry insisting.

That doesn't stop him from trying to remember the longest he went in between contact when he and Al were away, even as a treacherous part of his mind points out that he had a whole different set of circumstances on his journey, that it's out of character for Winry to be so quiet and unconcerned for her family.

He thinks it must be him, that there must have been some contact. He's seen Alphonse fingering telegrams, heard Granny rushing through quiet, tense calls; Ed has no idea what he's done to be forced from the loop, but he knows that they would tell him if he had reason to be concerned, if there was something wrong. Nothing in Amestris could keep him from her side if she needed him.

In the meantime, he's been devouring Granny's library, having rediscovered that old thrill of immersing himself in an entirely new subject. Automail is fascinating – or maybe it's the physiology behind it. Ed's always been interested in biology, found the human body to be an amazing thing in both form and function.

He's always given Winry credit for his automail, because how many times had it – and indirectly she – saved his life? But now, truly researching the matter for the first time, he actually understands, very truly and clearly, two things: that for Winry to master automail when she did was an amazing feat, and he honestly was too young for automail – and not just automail, his entire journey, however borne of necessity it had been.

The first fact shouldn't be nearly as surprising as it feels; he's always known Winry is smart, it's always been one of those facts that's obvious but never really talked about, like "apples are red." Winry's smart, and at an obscenely early age she was grasping concepts and ideas that still leave Ed scratching his head and reaching for the medical dictionary. Half the time he's tempted to tear the paneling from his forearm just so he can compare the words in the book with the wires at his side.

The second fact is a reminder driven unpleasantly home when Roy Mustang comes strolling up the drive, with Riza Hawkeye trailing behind him.

This visit is nothing like Roy's initial one to the Rockbell house. Riza waits outside. Roy comes in not with cold, blazing fury but with quiet, dignified weariness. The downfall of Fuhrer Bradley had not coincided with the fruition of his goals. He's still working, even if the allies are coming a little bit easier, even if the world feels a little safer to move in.

"You owe me money, Fullmetal." This is how he greets Ed, sitting calmly at Granny's kitchen table. He feels isolated; Granny's in the workshop, and judging by the yelps within it's a fitting that won't be ending anytime soon. He's not sure where Alphonse is, though Ed could have sworn he'd seen a shadow at the top of the stairs. Al's probably hiding, the big chicken.

Ed grits his teeth and grinds out, "My deepest apologies, Fuhrer Mustang."

Roy, to his credit, doesn't flinch. "You shouldn't call me Fuhrer."

"You shouldn't call me Fullmetal," Ed counters easily. He's still holding the book he'd been reading when he'd walked into the room, the book he'd been taking notes on when Granny had told him he had a visitor.

Roy catches sight of the blue canvas cover. "Autobiology for Engineers?"

Ed flushes and throws the book onto the table, ignoring the way his heart is pounding. There'd been a little piece of him that'd dared to hope – could she have come home? Some part of his mind he could never consciously acknowledge had wanted to impress her – look at what I'm learning. Look, I really listen to you.

"Embarking on a second career, Edward?" Roy takes a drink from the coffee Granny has put out. Ed's lip curls.

"I need one, now that I'm retired," he says shortly. "How's the north?'

Roy does cringe this time. There are deep lines around his mouth and circles under his eyes. Ed wonders if he'd been able to catch any sleep on the train ride out. "Getting worse. The Drachmians are still upset about Kimbley's little trick, and half of Briggs can't function unless General Armstrong's there whipping them. The commander we have there now is completely ineffectual."

"Hm." Finally, Ed sits down and pours himself a cup of coffee, grimacing at the bitter drink but not bothering to add any cream or sugar. "That was a dirty move Kimbley pulled on them, but you think someone could make the Drachmians understand that the people who are responsible aren't around anymore."

Roy is quiet for a long moment at these words. "They're being stubborn," he says finally. "They want retribution, even if part of it is their own fault for trusting Kimbley in the first place." He sighs mournfully and hunches over his coffee cup. "I'm probably going to have to go up there soon to sort things out."

Ed's eyes narrow, suspicion that has already been creeping in the shadows of his mind rearing its head in triumph. "You're not looking for someone to go up there with you, are you? Because I'm not going anywhere near Briggs again, and you can't-"

Roy holds up a placating hand. "Relax, Edward. I already recruited you once. I have no interest in damning myself a second time."

Ed should be pissed at the insult, wanted to be pissed at the insult, but can't help bursting out in agitated paranoia instead: "Then what are you doing here Mustang? 'Cause I'm sure you're not just here for your health."

"Not my health, Ed." Roy says easily, draining what remains in his cup. "Yours. You can call it an official or an unofficial check up, but here I am. The military keeps track of its most valuable assets."

Ed blinks at him. "I'm not sure what you're on about, but I'm fine. It's Al's health I'm worried about, but even he's doing a thousand times better from this summer."

Roy's looking morosely at his empty coffee mug. Scowling, Ed picks up the pot off of the hot plate and plunks it down in front of Roy. "What else do you want to know?"

"This isn't an interrogation Edward," Roy replies, trying to keep a breezy tone in the face of Ed's hostility. It's a skill he's mastered over the years, much to Ed's distaste. "I'm looking for information given up voluntarily. How you're adjusting to retirement, what you're doing with your time, how you're holding up with," here Roy nods at Ed's right arm, "those. You saw some serious action as the Fullmetal Alchemist, and that can leave a mark on a young man."

"I'm fine," Ed insists irritably. "I love being home, I'm happy Al's okay, and I don't even care about my limbs. In fact, I was thinking I'd go ahead and travel a little bit, now that I can actually enjoy it without worrying about being chased from town because of something as stupid as a silver watch."

"I'm sure it was the watch and not your attitude," Roy mutters into his shoulder sulkily. They glower at each other for a moment before the older man concedes. "Fine," he says with a sigh. "Would it be too much for me to ask you to keep me informed of your travel plans?"

"Yes, actually." More silence, filled with another minute spent exchanging unamused glares at each other. This time, it's Ed who caves. "If you gotta know, I thought I might go down to Rush Valley.

Roy chokes on his coffee. "I'm surprised," he admits once he finally clears his airway. "I figured you'd want to steer clear of that city."

"Yeah it's annoying when everyone crowds around you and wants to touch your limbs and crap, but I want to catch up with Winry, if she isn't traveling." His eyes stray back to the book next to him. He still has a lot of questions.

Roy's staring blankly into his coffee mug. "Traveling?" he repeats vaguely, his eyebrows starting to climb.

"You know, those traveling engineers, they go places that don't have regular mechanics settled," Ed explains impatiently, shifting in his seat. "Winry'd be good at that."

"I expect she would be," Roy murmurs, still recovering himself.

Later that afternoon, Ed's sitting on the balcony, completely absorbed in the latest section of his book, detailing the patient's mental status after installing operations:

Be aware of the fact that automail patients have undergone an enormous shock to their nervous system and may be suffering from any myriad of complications, including but not limited to fever, edema, nerve damage that may result in partial or temporary paralysis, and phantom limb pain. They may also feel weak and suffer from vertigo.

These well-known adverse effects may cause patients to have hysterical fits of screaming, weeping, and denying that they'd ever consented to the procedure. Patients have been known to accuse surgeons and engineers of forcefully removing perfectly good limbs and replacing them with automail – in short, patients can regress into a state of complete denial and claim they are perfectly whole and there only under duress. Often, once the rehabilitation process begins, these patients lose all memory of the initial surgical recovery.

Ed is frowning, and trying to remember his own initial recovery. He'd sworn to keep his mouth shut for Al's sake, but he doesn't remember much – only blinding, breath-stealing pain, not just in his limbs but in his whole body, shooting up his spinal cord to explode in his head, and then racing down to the very soles of his feet before raking across his chest and abdomen. Even Granny's sternest, most matter-of-fact warnings hadn't prepared him. He didn't think it was the sort of thing a patient could be prepared for, but he hadn't given much thought to the preparation of the surgeon.

Beneath him he hears the door open, hears Roy and Riza muttering goodbyes, and then: a third voice joining them.

It's Alphonse, and he doesn't sound happy. "You're not actually going to redraft Ed, are you?"

Roy snorts. "I never wanted to. The rest of the council insisted I look into him, and I honestly wanted to see for myself how he was recovering. I don't expect you'll hear from either of us in a military capacity again."

"Good." Al's reply is short. Roy might have both inches and pounds on Al, but his voice promises trouble, and there's no doubt in Ed's mind who'd win that fight.

"Don't worry Alphonse," Roy says sadly. "Even if they could force me to call Ed back, any commander would declare him unfit for combat the second they laid eyes on him."

His sudden decision to travel is put on hold. Once she sees the sincere interest Ed's taken in automail, Granny starts giving him more than odd jobs in the workroom.

"And see?" she's explaining, pressing gently against the man's skin where it's puffed around the edges of his port. "You remove those lymph nodes, and that's where this edema originates. It always seems to be really bad when you remove the ones in the axillary region when you have a full humeral port installed." She gives her patient a warning prod. "You've been cutting salt out of your diet, right? Because otherwise I'm going to have to get you a diuretic, and if you think you're having trouble sleeping now…"

He shudders. "I'm doing everything I can Ms. Pinako, I promise. You can ask my wife."

Granny purses her lips and twists the corners of her mouth. "You have three days. If you come in here Thursday all swollen like this I'm going to have to do something. It's not good for that fluid to just sit in your tissue that way."

"So I'm good for Thursday?" he asks, standing up and trying to shrug into his coat one-armed. "Are we going to attach my arm?"

"I should have it done." Granny nods, helping him by pulling the coat across his back. "It's a good sturdy model. Anything fancier and you'll have to make the trip to Rush Valley."

The old man blanches. "There is a reason I came to you in the first place. You couldn't pay me to go to Rush Valley."

"It's really not that bad," Ed mutters to himself, skulking behind Granny's exam chair and feeling oddly defensive. "There are some good mechanics there."

"No one I'd want touching my arm." Granny's patient shrugs, and Ed feels a shot of indignation spike in him, has no idea why this is such a touchy subject but feels like he needs to get the last word in anyway.

"What about Winry?" Ed snaps, and the old man merely blinks and gapes at him in response.

"Edward, stop talking," Granny orders, the studious grimace she'd been wearing while looking at her patient's port turning into a straight out frown.

"Stop pretending she doesn't exist!" Ed retorts. "Are you really so bitter that she left for Rush Valley that you can't even acknowledge her? Do you think you're the only one who misses her?"

"Edward." Granny's tone is as gruff as ever, but her face is pale and she looks like she needs to sit down. "You have no idea what you're saying."

"No," Ed says flatly. "I know exactly what's going on, and I know it's not fair to Winry."

"Ed." Granny's voice morphs; now she's calm and soothing and coaxing. "Ed, you have to stop this. You have to see that-"

"That what?" Ed demands, stepping towards Granny. She doesn't shrink back from him, not one bit, not even in the face of Ed's almost completely unprovoked wrath. "You can't be saying – I mean – this is bullshit."

With those words, he turns his back and storms from the room. Granny doesn't call him back, which is fine because for the first time in his life Ed can honestly say he wouldn't have gone to a loved one who was calling for him.

When Ed staggers into the study Alphonse is already there, clutching a piece of paper and looking angry. He's on the phone, and whoever is on the other end must be talking furiously because Al can't get a word in edgewise – and doesn't get a chance to, because Ed plucks the receiver from his hand easily and hangs up the phone for him.

"Brother!" Al protests and he must be really riled up because the color is high in his cheeks and his eyebrows are pulled tightly together. "That was an important-"

"I need to use the phone," Ed interrupts, grasping Al gently by the shoulder and leading him firmly towards the doorway. "In private. It's more important."

"Ed!" Al objects as Ed deposits him and shuts the door. Ed ignores him. He's reached the end of his rope; enough is enough. He's always given her credit for being patient during his journey, but this isn't fair. This isn't fair to Granny, who needs her help, and this isn't fair to Al who's finally back in his real body and most of all this isn't fair to him, because by the end of the journey all he'd wanted was to come home to her and her smile.

He doesn't blame her for wanting to learn more about automail or for wanting to finish her apprenticeship, and he wants her to be fulfilled in her job, but honestly, his automail was a piece of art even when she was still an apprentice – how much more could she need to learn, and how can she possibly justify leaving them this long?

There's only one reason she could leave for this long and that's if she's been forced to, he can't help thinking angrily as he picks up the phone and starts dialing the number. He's trembling so badly it takes him more than one try to get the whole nine-digit code correct, and then the phone rings and rings until Ed's ready to strangle himself with the cord, but then finally, finally, someone picks up the phone:

"Garfield's." The voice is high-pitched and sweet but most definitely not the one he wants to hear.

"Garfield!" he barks into the phone, holding the receiver so tensely his hand actually aches. "This is ridiculous! Let me talk to her!"

"What?" Garfield sounds confused; there are people talking in the background, but then he finally asks, "Who is this?"

"It's Ed!" he snarls. "Let me talk to her!"

There's a long pause on the other end of the receiver. "Ed who?" Garfield finally asks. "Mr. Carter, Ed?"

"Ed! Edward Elric!" Garfield's reply isn't instantaneous, and Ed shouts, "Winry's Ed! Let me talk to her!"

"What?" Garfield asks incredulously. Al is yelling something from the other side of the door, but Ed's focused entirely on the man on the other end of the line. "What are you – how dare you call me about Winry?"

"This is ridiculous, Garfield!" Ed says angrily. "Send her home, you can't keep her this long! People are waiting for her!"

"What are you talking about?" Garfield doesn't just sound confused, he also sounds disgusted, like someone's playing a crude practical joke on him. "You know she's not here."

"Send her home," Ed grinds out between gritted teeth, "The next time you talk to her! Tell her to come home."

"The next time I talk to her?" Garfield repeats dumbly after a minute. "Edward, the last time I spoke to Winry was when she was leaving for Briggs."

Ed mouths dumbly, looking for the words to adequately encompass his outrage. His eyes land squarely on the little yellow piece of paper Al had been holding, dropped in surprise when Ed had practically thrown him from the room.

It's from Mustang. They were calling him back to service.

The sun has set and Granny's workshop has long since been cleared of any patients. Ed sits in the middle of the main workbench, slowly ruining his eyesight by reading and rereading the telegram by dull candlelight.

It's fairly short, and to the point: they expect him to report up at Briggs by the end of the next weekend. At the bottom, handwritten in Mustang's familiar scrawl, are the words, "Ed, I'm taking care of this."

Just the thought that he could trust Mustang for anything infuriates him – he couldn't trust Mustang any farther than he could punt him, he couldn't even trust Mustang –

There were people everywhere, all military people, and not a single damn doctor, and that's what Al needed, a doctor, and who else should come parting through the crowd but Mustang. He wasn't smiling.

He can't trust Mustang to take care of this, he's gotta be ready for it, and damn if Winry won't come home and Granny can't help him, well then he's just got to take care of his automail his own damn self.

He shrugs out of his jacket, rolls the limb experimentally and feels it, once again, that feeling of something pulling in his shoulder, of something clicking where it shouldn't. Based on what he's learned – and he would barely put himself at the level of an ordinary apprentice, but when he's been reading he's been paying special attention to any mentions of shoulder ports and any common complications – he doesn't think that he's corroded any of the wires, because it's not exactly a painful sensation, and if the wires were messed up he'd been getting little zaps in his nervous system. It feels like something's been knocked out of place, and while it's not painful he suspects that it's affecting the synthetic muscles, because his arm has become so much weaker lately, like he's straining to complete tasks that were once simple.

He folds himself up and braces himself, trapping his elbow between his knee and the arm of the chair, but he can't pull in the right direction – to unlock the automail from the port he needs to pull out more than down, and damn he needs some sort of screwdriver or something to trigger the switch that'll release it, because his grasping hand just can't reach it. He has no idea why Winry had the bright idea to put it on his back where it would be hard to get a hold of.

For a moment he sits there, frowning and panting, and then looks across the room, his eyes trailing over Granny's bright, shining tools. He had been planning on touching as little as possible; Granny's sure to lecture him when she finds out he's been in here fooling around, and he'd really prefer it if he hasn't done any actual damage to her stuff, but then he spies one of the vices that holds the limbs while she's working on it, and Ed is up and moving towards it, leaving any thoughts to Granny's disapproval behind him.

He'll show them; Granny and Winry both. If Winry won't (can't) come home, he'll just have to take care of it himself.

"Fullmetal." Mustang's voice is ragged, and exhausted. Ed had thought that they'd been split up during this Promised Day crap, how is everyone here in Central? Why does Mustang look so terrified – and how can he look right past Al, who so clearly needs immediate attention. "You have to – she was – you have to come. She was – here."

He puts his full weight into it, and when he does he wishes that maybe he had made a better effort to reach the release switch, because something does let go in his shoulder, but the arm is still firmly attached to the port, and it hurts. He might have slid the humeral shaft from the port, but the wires haven't disconnected at all. The whole thing hurts, radiating pain into his back and shooting neatly down his arm, and Ed bites his lip and reaches for a screwdriver, intent of prying the automail out of its socket if for no other reason than it'll stop the signal that's causing this horrible pain. It'll be a loss for sure, because he's going to damage the last limb Winry's made for him, but he also hadn't expected this pain from his nerves, and his priorities have shifted towards just getting it out; salvaging the arm can come later.

For a moment he can only pant and stare at his arm, mentally counting off the panels that hide the screws and wires and guts of his automail – Granny had explained how the panel's were named to match up to the proximal joint's ligaments, and Ed eyes his trembling limb and tries to decide between two panels, mentally berates himself for forgetting the names, but if he can do something right Granny might actually be halfway pleased with him once she's done with her lecture –

"There's no time for this Colonel!" Ed shouts as Roy attempts to drag him and Al through the wreckage; he feels sick as he sees how huge and towering Roy looks compared to Al. He needs to slow down – Ed's stumbling as Roy pulls them both, and he can't imagine how Al's keeping up, and he's so busy being indignant that he nearly misses what Roy says next.

"Pinako's safe," he says, "But they found – I just – she was hiding in plain sight, of course Bradley found her –"

He traces one finger up his arm, still considering, and then feels it: a dip in his shoulder, where the shaft of automail arm had been pulled from the port. Coracohumeral panel, his brain finally supplies, and also his best bet; Ed lays the flat edge of the screwdriver against the top of the groove, and digs.

"What are you on about, Mustang?" Ed snaps, and wherever Roy is taking them must be secured because he's starting to recognize the people around him; he sees a flash of blond hair and his heart leaps irrationally. It's only Riza, and Ed is cheered to see that she is safe and whole despite her proximity to Wrath.

She doesn't smile at the sight of Ed or Al either.

He wants the arm out, and quickly. He'd told Ling once that automail installation hurt worse than losing the damn arm, but automail removal had never been like this, though neither Winry nor Granny had ever had to remove his arm piece by piece. His hands are slick with oil, the rest of his arm turning dark as it drips down his arm and pools around the metal wedges of the vice. It shines dully in the light as he pries another piece away and flicks it casually off of the screwdriver.

Ed has to pause a moment to take a breath, because he's found if he tries to breathe normally he can't stop himself from whining or crying out. He's pretty much given up any care on being able to put the arm back together; he'll fix the port and Granny will just have to build him a new arm, and no it won't be as good as one Winry could have made him – he takes in an involuntary gasp at this thought – but it'll serve him in the north.

He's not doing nearly as good a job at keeping quiet as he'd hoped; he's just starting to get to the real delicate portion of his arm – nearly to the port that encases his wires, because every time he brushes it pain shoots up into his body and reverberates in his skull – when the door cracks open, throwing a shadow into the soft gold light.

Ed takes a breath, prepares a defense against Granny's yelling, but it's Al, Al who looks exhausted and worried and when he sees what Ed's doing his golden eyes light up and he opens his mouth and –

Screaming and screaming and screaming, that's all Ed can hear, someone screaming in his ears and tearing at his arm and back. Whoever it is sounds loud and shrill against the quiet background; Roy and Riza have led them away from other people, and it's a good thing because they would be attracting attention when they surely can't afford it.

Roy is standing between the brothers and her, and Ed wants to push him away and go to her side but has no strength in his limbs, which he would think was kind of funny, if this was a different and appropriate time, because surely his automail arm would have had no problem tossing Mustang to the other side of the room if he'd really wanted to –

Al is screaming, shrieking for Granny and demanding to know what Ed thinks he's doing, scrambling for towels and Ed can suddenly see what looked like black oil against silver metal is staining the white towels a dark red. He's having trouble breathing, his vision suddenly blurring, and he can feel his legs buckling – but Ed knows, for sure, that there's nothing wrong with the automail port in his femur or the faux knee joint Winry designed for him, because they're not there anymore.

There's a flash of blue light and the vice releases him; Al hadn't even tried to figure out how Ed was trapped in there, merely transmuted the thing away and shoved Ed back into the workbench, and he's still yelling at Ed, so loudly that Ed almost can't hear the thumping footsteps rattling down the steps above them.

He blinks slowly and makes eye contact with Al, who's trying to make sense of what's left of Ed's now useless right flesh arm. "We killed her, didn't we Al?" he asks weakly, closing his eyes and not responding even when Al shouts and screeches and shakes him, hard.

"Sit," Mustang orders, pushing both of the brothers down to the ground next to her. Ed can only stare dumbly at her form; Hawkeye's thrown her jacket over her, with just barely enough room to cover both the wound and her face; Ed wants to see it and doesn't want to see it. He'd wanted to see her smile, see her cry tears of joy, and the idea of breaking his promise is impossible to comprehend.

"We'll get a doctor, Fullmetal." Riza says as soothingly as she can manage. "For Al, and to look at your limbs."

Ed shakes his head. "I'm fine," he insists, curling his arm close to his body, feeling that first twinge in his shoulder. "My arm's fine."

Then, when he can manage to take another breath, which seems to take forever, he adds, "I'd need a mechanic anyway, not a doctor."

A/N: Pertinent anatomy is courtesy of Hole's Human Anatomy and Physiology (Shier, Butler, and Lewis). All ludicrous attempts at explaining the physiology of automail are my mistakes alone.

My reasons for writing this are twofold: 1. Because I think hiding Winry in her basement in Risembool is like the worst hiding place ever (is everyone still supposed to believe she's kidnapped by Scar or what?), and 2. I've seen a million and one fics where Winry learns alchemy for the brothers but have never see a fic where Ed learns automail for her. (And if there is one, I'd love to see it?)