There was just...something about it.

Maybe his side profile was the best...

No...the back.

Definitely the back.

No! Definitely the back when he slowly turned around to look at her over his shoulder.

Yes.

That was when she'd see it in all its glory.

The braid.

That fucking braid.

It would lay against his neck and then softly turn with his head whenever he moved.

It made her want to pull it.

Sometimes when he and Alphonse were in town for the rare two or more days, and it was quiet around the house, Pinako out back in the workshop and Al running an errand, and him, Edward, lying on the couch as she meticulously fine tuned his automail, trying fruitlessly to avoid staring at that luxurious braid.

Did he know?

Did he ever realize her feelings towards that braid?

Probably not.

No, definitely not. He likely had no inclination to believe that her feelings transcended platonic childhood friendship.

But she sure knew that his did. And one day, when everything was settled, their bodies back in place and this constant fighting finally over.

She'd be with him.

And then, without any inhibition, she'd have him entirely and completely, and she'd pull his perfect hair all she wanted. And he'd probably like it. Her fingers slipped and she accidentally jabbed him near the shoulder with her wire pincher.

He hissed and opened his eyes, startled but quickly placated by her distant eyes resting on his face.

"Winry?"

"Ed, your braid is fucking hot."

"Oh you think so? Then let's have sex. Also, I love you."

But no, of course not. Had you going?

It's alright, that would be her reality soon enough.

Instead he grumbles, calls her a klutz, and even though she'd typically knock him around for the insult, his braid truly is fucking hot.

So she stares at it instead of getting irritated, smiles a bit serenely, and ignores his single, opened eye that's warily observing her, waiting for an onslaught.

She keeps working on his arm.

The onslaught might come later. Three months? Maybe...five? Maybe even a whole year! (And it wouldn't come in the form of wrenches or insult.)

She hopes she can last that long without running her fingers through and entangling them in that braid. Yanking his head back and biting hard at his neck, hearing a heady and very male moan that she's sure she could easily elicit, sucking on the skin of abdominals that are sinfully toned for such a young man, relishing in the metal pull of his zipper when she takes off his pants and starts lowering her head-

Later. It just got fifty degrees hotter where she's sitting, and she can't risk her handiwork again.

Edward Elric is still carefully watching her, though it's with both eyes now, and the caution is gone. He's just watching her now, his eyes hooded. He lets out a measured sigh and stares at her lips.

And she knows, she fucking knows he's thinking the exact. Same. Thing.

Their eyes meet, he blushes, minutely, in a way that makes her want to gently pull at his braid, breathe into his ear and hear him beg for her. He turns his head towards the inside of the couch, avoiding her gaze.

She smiles and finishes her work.

Ah, Edward. Our time will come. I promise you.

It's ok, Edward. I know.

I know.

(Also your braid is fucking hot.)