A/N: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.
...
Winry's hands shook as she attempted to maneuver the screwdriver into the slotted bolt of the automail arm. She struggled desperately to ignore the mangled form of the metal, but was failing. It had only been a day, and that was not enough time to become numb.
The thin, pliable nerve connectors were completely crushed under the bent and ravaged frame of the artificial joints, from where the roof of the car had caved in on the passengers. The pain would have been…
Seeing the visible tremors of her hand somehow caused them to spread, and soon her shoulders were shaking as well, tensing convulsively with every choked sob she smothered behind her clammy palm. The screwdriver fell from her grasp and clattered on the wood of the table. She bit her bottom lip so hard, it might have been blood she tasted now mingling with the salty tears tracking down her cheeks, and blurring her vision.
She cried out in frustration at her body's unwillingness to function, and slammed her fist on the table, rattling the metal atop of it.
"Damn…" she cursed roughly, pressing her trembling hand against her aching eyes and digging in the heel of her palm against the soaked lashes. All she wanted was to exhaust herself, to labor over the metal and oil until the fumes dried her eyes out of her skull, and the physical toil burned away the hurt slowly, agonizingly collapsing her chest. Silence would jeopardize the denial still stubbornly coursing through her.
She heard the door open behind her, and the muted, even footsteps that she somehow immediately recognized. She watched through blurry vision as a stream of light illuminated the dusty air, and fell upon the worktable in front of her. Winry gently touched the wet stains on the wood, from where she had been bent over for…she didn't know how long. Time felt somehow nonexistent now. Nothing existed but the past. A past that she refused to believe was gone.
And knowing who now stood behind her, in all his arrogance and corrupt authority, the fury inside of her no longer laid dormant, but boiled beneath the surface of her skin. It was almost enough to distract her from the cancerous grief clawing its way deeper and deeper into her heart.
"What are you doing here?" she growled under her breath, masking the underlying tremble.
Mustang didn't answer her, but was only silent. Bastard.
"Leave," Winry said, wanting him gone. Needing him gone.
"Winry," the colonel finally said, and Winry recoiled at the sound of his voice, low and emotionless.
"Go. Away," she repeated.
"…I just, wanted to see if you were-"
"Shut up!" Winry screamed, shooting to her feet, effectively knocking her chair to the floor with a loud clang that echoed down the empty, abandoned halls of the building. She whipped around to face the man, a snarl forming on her lips and pure rage emanating from the stance of her body, the contortion of her brow, "Just shut up! You don't know anything, you never know!"
Mustang stepped farther into the room, the large black hem of his coat sweeping behind him. His silhouette was dark and malevolent in the dim light of the space, faintly illuminated by the glow of the moon filtering in through the window.
"Winry, please…"
"NO!" she cried, this time her voice cracking on the high, desperate notes of her raw anguish, "IT'S YOUR FAULT! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO MADE HIM GO!"
Broken, wet sobs shook her frame as she fell upon Mustang and began beating at his chest, his arms, his head. Hot, smoldering fury pulsed through her, replacing the blood that she had once thought was the only thing keeping her alive.
But it had been him.
Mustang held her wrists as she fought to scratch at his face, and yank at his hair, screaming shrill obscenities at his infuriatingly pained, yet calm face, the dark, sunken eyes within seeming to glisten. She continued to kick and cry and weep hot, stinging tears as he somehow managed to wrap his arms around her and pull her body against his.
She struggled against the embrace, hating him, hating him. She hated him.
And she told him so, over and over, even as they sunk to the floor in each other's arms, both weighed down by the unbelievably heavy burden of their shared loss.
"Say you hate him. Just say it," She whimpered into his shirt, the fabric fisted in her sweating, shaking hands, "Please. Please, tell me you hated him. Tell me that's why. Please, tell me it wasn't for nothing."
"No," Mustang said firmly, voice gruff and hoarse, as if his own throat were raw with pain, "It wasn't for nothing. He died-he died a hero," his hold on Winry tightened, and she didn't fight. She wasn't strong enough anymore.
She felt his nose bury into her hair, and a warm wetness trickled into the strands. Winry clung tight to Mustang, letting the sobs completely take over.
And beginning a cycle that she knew in the deepest part of herself would never truly end, she grieved.
...
A/N: ...I have just discovered that I am evil. Hope you enjoyed it, cause it was at the expense of my innocence. I hope you're happy!