Roy Mustang knew it was ridiculous that he couldn't get one little question out of his head.

Honestly, it was border line slapstick silly. Almost border line at that because, even though he didn't like to admit it, he was only anywhere near what is defined as "slapstick silly" when he was very, very drunk.

Like last Friday evening, Saturday morning if you get technical, when he'd come home slapstick silly drunk. Only to find a pinky toeless and very upset Edward and a very flesh and blood Alphonse in his room.

Needless to say, it hadn't been a reflection of his normal Friday night.

It had been that very evening that, in that wonderfully slapstick silly drunkenness, that said mentioned ridiculous question had sprung forth.

Did they even make automail toes?

It would have been a simple question to answer with a quick, prompt visit to one of Central's automail shops or even a library. But, as things had played out, visiting an automail shop or a library to answer this small question of his had been very far down his list of things to do.

The rest of Saturday had been spent sleeping off what he now called his "Hangover for the Ages" and puking his guts up every few hours.

Sunday had been filled with the fun activity of visiting Edward in the hospital, and coming up with some sort of cover story for Al's suddenly more human and emaciated appearance. After hours of combined effort, Roy and Ed finally came to the conclusion that declaring it a "freak accident during an alchemic experiment" would probably be the easiest route to go.

And now Roy found himself at the office, on a Monday, five hours away from his work day being over, unable to let the question go.

Did they even make automail toes…?

He sighed, trying to turn his attention back to the papers in front of him. The previous week –which he lovingly had dubbed 'The week from Hell'-, was still haunting him with backed up paperwork and the like.

And when paperwork haunted him, so did Riza Hawkeye.

"Back to work, sir." Said mentioned subordinate, dropping yet another stack of papers onto his poor desk.

Roy internally groaned. It looked like he would be working late.

Again.

Just like everyday last week.

And surly by the time he'd be leaving, the shops would be closed…and so would the library.

"Hawkeye, do you know if they even make automail toes?" Mustang found the question jumping out of his mouth before he really realized what he was saying.

Hawkeye turned back to the Colonel, one eyebrow arching smoothly.

"I don't see why they wouldn't sir." She said, turning around once more, walked out of the office and closed the door briskly.

It wasn't exactly the 'yes' or 'no' answer he'd hoped for. But at least it was an answer.

Roy sighed again, trying to immerse himself in his work as the persistent question still lingered with him.

Do they even make automail toes?

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All I have to say is go check out the fic titled "Luck" by Sevlow. Funniest thing I've had the joy of reading in a long time.