This is for my father, who advised me that villains never fight fair.
The boiler roused itself with a groan and a slow succession of clangs, like a blacksmith reluctantly beating out horseshoes the morning after a bender. Startled, Winry Elric blotted her case notes, dropped her pen and muttered one of her grandmother's favorite workshop epithets. One day she'd take a wrench (or maybe a sledgehammer) to the radiators of the A-1 Automail Clinic and shut them up for good.
Ooh, please -- may I?
Her gaze fell briefly upon the black leather tool-bag on the floor beside her desk ... but temptation yielded to reason: neither she nor the clinic could afford the time and parts needed to do the job properly. "Don't start what you can't finish" -- right, Granny? Instead, Winry relieved her feelings by tearing the ruined leaf into shreds and lobbing a pale shell-burst into the wastebasket.
The pipes hammered on as she recopied her notes onto a fresh sheet, and a welcome warmth seeped into the room. Pulling her feet out of her shoes, Winry swiveled her chair around to tuck her toes under the radiator beneath the dark window. West City hadn't seen a winter this cold in a long time, though the letters page of the Inquirer had been divided for weeks on the question of whether it could be called the coldest in living memory. Elderly correspondents submitted competing accounts of the blizzard of seventy-four, after which the drifts were piled as high as a horse's withers, and the ice storms of sixty-seven that cut the telegraph wires, stopped the trains and almost led to a food riot in Corn Street. (On cue, Winry's stomach grumbled; reaching back, she grabbed the last of her bread-cheese-and-pickle sandwich from the blotter and downed it in a single bite.) The only thing the letter-writers could agree upon was that no one under forty had ever seen a real winter, and that all this whining about a touch of sleet or a dusting of snow betrayed a degeneration of the national character -- just like the rise of hedonism, the decline of proper manners, and President Grumman's spineless policy of negotiating border disputes rather than giving those Drakkie bastards a good thumping.
The wind sobbed in the sashes and dashed a spatter of rain against the panes. Rubbing one foot on top of the other, Winry turned back to her desk. This winter was only her second in the west, so she kept out of the debate, taking her colleagues' word for it that the number of clients presenting with port-site chilblains was abnormally high. All I can say is that it wasn't like this last year. Used to Riesenbuhl's raw winters, she'd smiled at her neighbors' excitement when damp snow squalls crowned fenceposts and street-lamps with woolly hats, lending even the dullest business district a picture-postcard charm. Less charming slush at street-level had melted by day to freeze overnight, until the impotent scrape of shovels became the city's reveille. Then the ice storms had begun and anything that thrust skyward -- branch, mast, or frame -- quickly accumulated a burden glittering and deadly. Trees came down, electric wires snapped, and Ed stopped deriding Winry's investment in candles as romantic, though he still groused that their light was hardly adequate to study by. If I'd known what we were in for, she thought, I'd have bought a lot more. Candles, like lamp oil, rock salt and coal, had grown dear as the new year fussed in its colicky infancy.
The metaphor brought a half-smile to her lips; her left hand gingerly kneaded her belly as her right continued to make notes. She and Ed hadn't planned to start a family so soon -- not until he'd finished college, at least -- but what was it Lan Fan had used to say? It is man's to scheme, but heaven's to accomplish, that was it. Ed had put it more rudely, of course, when Winry had confided her suspicions to him. What, now? he'd blurted out. Whose idea was that? But before she could decide whether to hit him or laugh at his poleaxed expression, he'd shaken his head as if to settle his wits and stumbled on, I mean, we -- you -- we should find out for sure, right? And then -- I dunno -- buy a cradle and stuff?
She'd leaned over to hug him then and been surprised when he returned the embrace with less than his usual abandon. Ed?
Sorry, he'd answered, kissing her. You're not -- you're all right?
I'm fine, she'd said firmly. Everything's going to be fine.
She'd held to that in every discussion since, and Ed's stupefaction had eventually given way to cautious cheer, though he hadn't yet conquered the impulse to treat her like an ice-coated tree limb -- something reliable and familiar turned fragile and strange. Winry uncrossed her ankles and straightened her spine. She didn't feel fragile at all, or anything out of the ordinary yet, except sometimes nervous. And hungrier, she added, pausing in her work to brush the breadcrumbs on the blotter into a small pile. Dizzy now and then. As she swept the crumbs into the wastebasket, she smiled again, crookedly. Embarrassed by all the peeing. She hadn't begun to show, which made it difficult to justify monopolizing the clinic's toilet without getting into explanations she wasn't ready to make.
They hadn't told anyone the news thus far, not even Granny or Al; she'd persuaded Ed to wait until the baby quickened, with the blessing of the very discreet midwife his careful inquiries at the hospital had turned up. Mrs. Roda was reassuringly brisk and kind, but her placid forehead always creased whenever her patient's household circumstances came up. Winry tried her best not to sound hapless (or as if she were pleading for a reduced fee) and the midwife never criticized her plan to continue working as long as possible and to return to the clinic as soon as she was able. But Mrs. Roda had also pointedly inquired whether a relative or friend might be available to help Winry after the birth. A new mother isn't an invalid, of course, but an infant requires a lot of care, and an extra pair of hands can make a big difference ...
Oh, my grandmother would come, if I asked, Winry had answered, without mentioning that she was unlikely to do so. Granny was past seventy now -- still hale, of course, but it seemed unfair to have her make an exhausting cross-country journey unless they really couldn't handle things themselves. And where would we put her up? Winry didn't even have to imagine her husband's horror at the idea of Pinako Rockbell sleeping on the couch in their kitchen-cum-sitting room -- it had already ended their one fight over the issue, right before his mid-year exams, and he hadn't broached the topic since.
As for friends ... Winry turned over a new leaf, the hush of the empty clinic as audible as the bollixed radiators in her ears. I can't ask Mrs. Hughes; who would take care of Elicia? Paninya wouldn't know any better than I would what to do, and Rose lives even farther away than Granny. Master Garfiel ... no. She chewed the end of her fountain pen, then carefully printed the name of her last patient of the day. There was no need to feel abandoned; Ed had a lively circle of cronies at college, though most of them were his fellow surgical apprentices, as busy as he and generally a year or two younger. They hadn't been sure what to make of Winry at first: in the medical pecking order, surgeons ranked below physicians, but well above automail engineers (who in turn could condescend to dentists and midwives, who thanked their lucky stars for the existence of traveling quacksalvers and miracle men). Once she'd punctured the self-importance of a patronizing young man or two, however, the young women in the group had adopted her as their mentor. Winry had imbibed enough tea and confidences in the past twelve months to fill her mind as well as her bladder to bursting sometimes. She wondered if helping Mira and Tina find their feet in a man's world counted as practice for motherhood, and what they would think if they knew she needed it. They'd be pleased for me, I guess, she thought as she recorded her patient's current height and weight. Surprised, too, probably, but pleased. She grimaced. And the way they gossip, the whole city would know in three days.
She was anxious to avoid gossip, lest it get back to the clinic before she was ready to break the news to her employers. Messrs. Tate and Hare were a relatively new partnership, still building their reputation and clientele; they had hired Winry on the strength of her design credentials, but were reluctant to give her free rein to experiment. ("Our patients aren't rich enough for fancy flourishes, Mrs. Elric." "Solid craftsmanship with a touch of elegance: that's the ticket!") On the other hand, they were quick to tout her successes, like the rebuild she'd done on the legs of the dour ex-soldier who worked as a stuntwoman in photoplays. Word-of-mouth about that job had brought other automailers from the cinema-theatrical community to the shop, along with the occasional free ticket to an opening. Everyone was quite pleased with such glamor-by-association: the receptionists had begun reading the trade weeklies so that they could chat knowledgeably about "the business," and stuffy Mr. Tate had unbent so far as to joke with Winry that they should advertise themselves as The A-1 Automail Clinic -- Engineers to the Stars. But if even Ed, who knew her well, had had to be persuaded that Winry could keep her job, how much harder would it be to convince her bachelor bosses that "mother" and "engineer" weren't mutually exclusive terms?
She laid her pen aside and rested both hands on her abdomen. We'll be fine. Granny always said that good work spoke for itself, after all. And as long as Winry didn't act sick, she couldn't be let go out of some misguided concern for her health. Every morning she checked her face in the mirror to make sure her cheeks weren't too pale or too hectic, practicing a confident smile until she felt as calm as her reflection looked. If nothing else, it kept Ed from fussing at her over breakfast. Winry sighed in remembered exasperation and the casement behind her mimicked the sound, cold air whistling in between frame and sash. She turned and tugged on the window until the noise faded, yet the chill seemed to linger. At least it'll be warm when the baby comes, she thought, but couldn't quite believe it. Summer seemed so far off, but the baby was already here, growing inside her.
Winry settled back in her chair and propped an elbow on the desk, leaning her chin on her knuckles. When she and Ed had discussed having children, they'd talked a lot about always being there for them and teaching them to be as brave and smart and loving as their uncle and grandparents, and a little bit about wanting a house with lots of bookshelves and a big yard. I thought we'd have more time to work out the details. But heaven (or luck or their own bodies) had decreed otherwise, accomplishing what they'd barely begun to scheme, like the weather that overnight transformed the icicles twinkling on the eaves into stalactites as long and thick as the iron railings of the fire escape. Winry had caught Ed hacking them loose that very morning and dumping them into the alley with a crash like breaking glass. What are you doing? she'd demanded.
They're dangerous, he'd answered. Someone could get hurt if they fell by accident --
So you're throwing them down on purpose? What if someone's taking out their trash?
I looked first, he'd said, but his furtive glance downward had not been reassuring. No one's there. Don't get all worked up about it.
I am not getting worked up! she'd retorted, just as their left-hand neighbor launched an irritated fusillade of thumps into the common wall.
The greatest drawback to their apartment was not the cramped quarters, but the inability to deal with problems by having a good yell. Winry had swallowed the rest of her defense; Ed, less considerate, had slammed the window shut. I'm gonna call the landlord and tell him the gutter's blocked again, he'd muttered, and made a great business of rolling down his shirt sleeves so as not to have to meet her eyes as he walked past. Winry had glowered at the wall instead and wondered how their neighbor would react to a crying baby.
What if we have to move?
The storm, tiring, stopped tossing sleet against the side of the building so that the diffident tick-tick-tick of the wall clock could make itself heard. Winry bent over her notes, completed an abbreviated treatment summary, and scrawled her initials at the foot of the page. After briskly collating the sheets, she dropped them into the brimful wire basket atop the safe. It had been a busy day despite the foul weather, doubly so with Mr. Hare calling in sick. Winry and Mr. Tate had split between them those clients unwilling to reschedule their appointments; the coming days promised more of the same, since Mr. Hare was prone to bronchitis and had been coughing thunderously when he reported himself ill. Winry couldn't say she relished the extra work and longer hours -- I miss my husband, even if he is a reckless idiot -- but it did emphasize that the practice had more than enough work for three engineers. They have to realize that, at least, she thought as she picked up her bag and left the office. And they won't find anyone as good as me so easily. She turned the corner into the back hall, with its elderly, slanting staircase and pilled carpet, and snorted. Not at the price they're willing to pay.
As she collected her coat and scarf from the closet beneath the stairs, Winry cast a dubious eye out the back door at the wet and gleaming steps. The alley had been salted and cleared a day or two ago, but negotiating that narrow, dark passage in a freezing rain shower held very little appeal. She wound the scarf twice around her neck, shrugged into her coat, and decided to use the front door. I'll have to leave the chain off, she thought guiltily. But as long as I'm the first one in tomorrow, no one will ever know. Ed would grumble when she crawled out of bed half-an-hour early and left his breakfast warming on the stove instead of sitting down to eat with him properly, but she'd take his complaints over the likelihood of a wrenched knee or strained back in any weather. She grinned. Maybe she should tell her husband that his grumbling would carry more weight if he indulged in it less often.
She returned up the hall, putting out the lights behind her as she went. Her conscience was still muttering uneasily about the chain bolt when she arrived in the waiting room. A street-lamp shone dimly through the thin drapes drawn across the windows, outlining in broad, blurred strokes the chairs lined up against the walls and the low, square endtables in the corners. Winry paused to let her eyes adjust and heard the front doorknob rattle.
Oh, no, she thought, as her conscience subsided into ironic silence. It wasn't unusual for clients to arrive after closing time and, filled with unreasonable hope, try door or bell, ignoring the sign which informed them of the clinic's hours and provided the telephone number of the answering service in case of emergency. The least hint of life within would have them peering through the windows and knocking on the glass until the door opened -- which, Winry admitted to herself, she was probably a little too willing to do. But not tonight. Not only Mr. Tate and Mr. Hare, but Ed too would disapprove of her seeing a patient, or someone claiming to be a patient, alone on a dark and stormy evening.
But the person standing on the stoop obviously wasn't a client, for Winry heard the snick and scrape of the lock releasing, and a chill draught blew damply into the room as the door opened to the meager limit of the chain. She frowned, but before she could do more than think how odd it was for precise Mr. Tate to forget that he couldn't enter through the front door after hours, a sharp blow to the panel tore the chain from its moorings. Winry stumbled back, one hand closing around the wrench in her coat pocket, the other scrabbling for the light switch.
The overhead fixture snapped on as the door swung wide to reveal a tall, heavily muscled man with grizzled dark hair, his right eye covered by a patch. He stepped across the threshold, catching the panel as it bounced off the wall and careened back toward him. With his other hand he brushed some damp snow from the shoulders of his duster and Winry heard the tell-tale clicks of low-grade automail as his elbow bent and straightened.
"Excuse me, miss," the man said, his tone making a grim joke of the courtesy. "I'm looking for someone named Elric."
"I'm she -- " Winry began automatically, before her shocked brain could rein in her tongue. Idiot! He's a burglar! Get rid of him! She drew the wrench from her pocket and gripped it in both hands. "Get out of here," she said, putting all the authority she could summon into her voice, "before I call the police!"
His lips curling in a slow sneer, the man pushed the door shut behind him.