Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don't break them… too much.
Don't Blame the Tea
Warnings: Sexual assault. Also, Edward's potty mouth.
Winry sighed as she put the kettle on to boil.
She pulled her trusty red bandana from an oversized pocket and tied it in place, then fished two mugs out of the cupboard, humming a tuneless jaunt to herself all the while. She'd have to sit down with the man beforehand to gauge exactly what he was expecting, and in her experience a good chat over a cup of tea did wonders for nervous new clients.
Not that she really expected the man to be nervous—he was a veteran after all, discharged after losing a hand during a border skirmish—but she'd been taught from a young age that building a good client base started with the little things. Doubly important, because he'd already expressed dissatisfaction with his old automail mechanic.
Plus, the tea was quite tasty, sent straight from Al in Xing's imperial capital.
The kettle began to scream, so she collected it and the mugs, and placed the whole lot of them next to the sugar on the kitchen table. A glance at the clock above the stove told her that her new client would be here any moment. Her eyes shut for a moment; she revelled in the silence of the big old house—rare, considering Ed and Granny now lived under the same roof, and apparently could never miss the chance to make a remark at the other's expense.
Idly, she wondered how Granny's house-call was faring and if she should make stew for dinner. Ed would probably be famished after spending all day helping Mr Carpenter replace the barn roof.
The knock at the door rang through the quiet house.
The man blinked at her with dull grey eyes when she answered, and quickly stuffed both hands in his pockets. He wasn't bad looking, she decided, eyeing his strong jaw and broad shoulders, and he'd kept his form well after his discharge from the military. "Uh, hello," he muttered, and his voice was a deep bass that rumbled from deep within his chest, "I've got an appointment?"
It was easy to offer him a welcoming smile. "I'm glad you could make it. I'm Winry Rockbell; we spoke on the phone. Was your train ride out to Resembool nice enough?"
One thing most people didn't understand; half of an automail mechanic's job was a social one, talking about children and the weather and news from the big cities… Anything to keep a client comfortable. The man laughed and presented a hand for her to shake. "It's my pleasure to meet you, Miss Rockbell. James Carlton. The train ride out here was… well, a train ride."
She offered the man—James—her half-fake client-laugh and received a grin in response. "Yeah, long rides can be a bit of a pain in the ass," she said as she moved away from the door.
"Literally." He stepped through the threshold and followed her into the kitchen as she turned the conversation to business.
"I've made some tea for us if you're interested. I'd like to sit down with you for a bit so that we can talk about what you're looking for with your automail."
"That sounds fantastic." He offered her a straight-toothed smile as he waited for her to sit first, then served them both tea when she did.
She could appreciate a client who was open about what they were expecting, and James did that with easy laughs and perfect smiles all the while, twisting in flattering stories about his time as a soldier while he talked about the automail he hoped he could afford one day and the automail he could afford now. He leaned forward when she talked and refilled her tea for her when her mug ran low and, once, accidentally brushed his flesh fingers against hers when they reached for the sugar at the same time. He stumbled through an apology and insisted that he was blushing even when she laughed and retorted that his cheeks weren't red at all.
It took, according to the clock above the stove, nearly an hour and most of the tea kettle to get all the information that she needed. But when she gathered her notes together and stood, he offered a joking complaint. "But I'm having such a great conversation with you, Miss Winry. Surely there's more information you need?"
He quirked his eyebrow as he said it.
Winry offered her half-fake client-laugh. "At this point, taking a look at that hand of yours can give me more complete answers than you can, Mr Carlton."
He waved the aforementioned hand at her. "Oh please. I'd be disappointed if you didn't simply call me James."
"I'd be happy to, James," she said, and his eyes brightened. She stood. "If you'll follow me?"
She led him past the old wooden staircase and to the back of the house, where a single room waited to admit clients. The room was sparse but comfortable, its walls adorned with different automail designs and a single cabinet where she kept her ohmmeteres, calipers, graphometers, and a dozen other instruments. The room's sole table was already covered with a thick wool cloth, and a wrench and screw driver rested there.
"Well, isn't this quite the set-up?" James said as he followed her into the room and let her sit down first.
She waved away the comment and, when he eyed the open door, told him "no one will be home for a few more hours, I don't think, and it gets kind of warm in here during the summer months. It'll be more comfortable for both of us if we keep it open. I hope that's okay?"
"That's perfect." His smile showed a little too much tooth. She ignored it, though, and opted instead to make a few comments about the wonderful weather they'd been having and to ask if he enjoyed the outdoors. He unbuttoned his left sleeve as she spoke, exposing a metal hand and forearm, and offered a positive response.
"Well," she said as she stood and went to the cabinet to grab the dynamometer—a grip strength measurer that she'd picked up just last month, "if you take the train one stop past Resembool, Kineton's go some amazing fishing this time of year, or so I've heard."
"That sounds fantastic." He said, perhaps a little gruffly. His chair squeaked as he stood up. "Please, let me help you find what you're looking for."
She glanced back, offered him a polite smile over her shoulder before setting her eyes on the shelving once more. "No, really, that's alright—"
"I insist." His voice was far too close. She made a grab for the first metal tool she saw, kept it behind her back as she turned to face him. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile was beguiling, his shoulders were relaxed.
Still, her stomach jumped up, pushing against her pounding heart, and no wonder she couldn't breathe properly because her ribs were far too tight all of a sudden. She steeled herself, met his eye steadily, plastered a smile on her face. "I'm fine, Mr Carlton, really. If you'll just sit down—"
"I thought it was James?" He stepped forward again, close enough that his arm brushed against her as he began to rifle through the cabinet. "I'd really just like to help, Winry. You've been so nice to me that I just want to return the favour—"
"I appreciate that, but I really don't need the help—"
The smile on his face froze. His bright eyes went cold. His shoulders tightened. "Do you do that to all men?"
"Excuse me?" Her grip on the caliper tightened.
"I bet you do." The smile, frozen and brittle just a second ago, had shattered completely. All his charm peeled away from his face, leaving a bitter sneer behind. He had to be at least eight inches taller than her, her mind supplied, and how could she really fight back against some ex-military? "I bet you serve all the men tea and offer them a pretty smile and hang onto all their words, you little trollop, and walk around with your sleeves tied around your waist like that…"
His right hand drifted to her exposed waist, crept up to her ribs. Her skin prickled and burned. Her mind screamed. Her tongue was glued to her teeth; her throat sealed itself shut.
His hand drifted higher, brushed against the hem of her cropped black top. "So, Miss Mechanic, do you keep your promises?"
The hand brushed, feather light, against her breast. She started. Her right hand, gripping the caliper in a white grip, swung up. Her mind howled, Go for the face! Go for the face! But he, with all his military background and reflexes honed on some bloody battlefield, was faster. A flash of reflected light as he caught her wrist in his automail hand, tightened, tightened until the pain flared up her arm and into her shoulder, and the caliper dropped from numb fingers…
A bang echoed through the house.
"L-let go, you jackass!" At least she sounded more angry than scared. Her free hand was already scrabbling for another weapon as the grip tightened even more. She gritted her teeth against it. But he wasn't letting go, and his wandering hand kept exploring her body, leaving a trail of scorched skin in its wake. "Stop it! Now!"
And he leaned close—too close, far too close, getawaygetawaygetaway—and muttered into her ear, "but you owe me what you advertise, and I'd rather like to cash in…"
A scream tore itself from her throat, desperate and primal, a thousand shards of glass. Her hand closed around something and she lashed out, blindly, scream still on her lips, panic wailing through her mind as the too-small wrench landed—
Then he jerked back, and that grip loosened on her wrist and she scrambled away, and Ed slammed the man's head into the cabinet once, twice, before he managed to spin around with rage in his grey eyes and a snarl on his face. "You little bastard—"
A fist flew forward, too fast to follow. Blood spurted from the man's face, decorated Ed's knuckles, dripped onto the floor, onto her caliper, and he dropped, groaning and cursing, to the blood-stained wooden planks.
"Get the fuck out of this house." Ed's voice was quiet and low, and it reverberated off the walls. He stooped, his bloody knuckles whitened as he buried them into the collar of the other man's shirt, and dragged him out of the room. Distantly, she heard the front door shut with a boom that echoed through the whole house.
Mismatched footsteps, then a gentle hand on her elbow helped her stand but when had she even fallen and why was she on the ground and—? "Did he hurt you?"
And that was Ed's voice and she knew it, trying to be calm and comforting, but the hand on her elbow was too rough and too hot and too much a soldier's and she jerked away from it, even as her knees trembled and gave out again; even as she tried to tell herself to calm down and stop shaking and just breathe, but…
The rustle of fabric and hum of metal bearings. He was kneeling before her, staring at her, not touching, body taut as a wire, and his voice was shaking now, with urgency and a thin strand of fear, but what did he have to be afraid of because he'd just broken the man's nose…
"Winry, answer me, okay? Did he hurt you anywhere?"
"Ah…" Had he? Had he hurt her? Her skin was still burning where he'd touched her but that wasn't actually possible, right? And her wrist throbbed, but she could feel her fingers. "I… No."
A sigh. His shoulders sagged. "Thank fuck. Good." A pause then, "Look… next time you have a new client, let me know, okay?"
She nodded, and didn't try to swallow the tears.
She sighed, hummed to herself, took a sip of tea. It really was an excellent blend, a white tea with just a hint of something floral, and she promised herself to let Al know when he came back from Xing. Wonderful, indeed. She let her eyes slide shut. Nice and light and blessedly warm against her cold fingers…
"Excuse me." The rumbling bass of a man's voice interrupted her bliss, and she jumped in surprise. The mug crashed to the tile floor; she mourned its loss for a fraction of a second before turning to face her new companion. He was… non-descript, his features simply blurred out, but he smiled at her pleasantly.
"Your tea smells wonderful," he told her. "Do you mind if I try some as well?"
"Sure." Surely, she'd have more, and then they could both enjoy it.
But… then where was it? She searched the room—and what an odd room it was, with its drab walls and plain counters, and where was the door?—but there was no teapot, no mugs, no little canister with flowing Xingese script. She turned back to the man, a smile and a polite apology on her lips. "I'm so—"
He was already frowning, though. Eyes furrowed, smouldering, growing brighter until they were a deep, angry red. "No tea? You promised me tea."
"I know that, but it's gone missing—"
She blinked, and he was so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. Her heart shuddered, then picked up a quick tempo, throwing itself against her ribs until it hurt. The alarm at the back of her mind blared, and Run! Run! broke into her tumbling thoughts, but her knees trembled and her legs were wooden and her feet wouldn't move.
"You promised me. Why do you make promises that you don't keep?"
"I-I do want to keep it but there's nothing—"
"Give it to me!" His breath, too hot and too heavy, rushed across her skin, curling over her collarbones and around her neck, and then his hands were there, too, rough and painful as they travelled across her stomach, flew over her ribs and arms and neck and sternum and—
"Give me what I deserve!"
—and squeezed and taunted and—
She wrenched her eyes open, jerked herself away from the damp pillow, fought the tangle of blankets and bedsheets and, shit, why couldn't she get them away, they were holding her down and she couldn't run—
She didn't realize that she'd been crying, sobbing as she fought with the covers until a few sharp raps sounded from her bedroom door. "Winry?" It was Ed. "I'm coming in."
The door squealed. Then there he was, puffy-eyed and pale-faced, hair loose and tangled around his shoulders, quickly and methodically sorting out the nest of bedsheets until she could free her trembling legs and draw them to her chest. He found himself a perch at the end of her bed and just sat there, eyes fixed on the floorboards, the faint moonlight casting a silver-blue beam over his bare arms and legs.
"I offered him tea," she whispered, voice trembling so badly that it surprised even her. "That's all. I was just trying to be nice, and…" The panic and pain grew in her throat, heavy like lead, shifting and twisting until she could barely breathe, let alone speak. Her ribs were too tight now, pressing against her heart, her lungs. She gasped and curled herself tighter…
The bed shifted. There were hands at her elbows, warm and rough and gentle like a breeze. "It wasn't the tea," Ed told her, "and there's nothing wrong with being nice to someone. Some people are… They're just messed up. That's got nothing to do with you, you got that?"
She tried to answer, but her throat still wasn't working properly, and a wavering whimper escaped instead. Still, she nodded against his chest when he pulled her close, and that was enough.
"Good," he muttered into her hair, and his arms were wrapped around her shoulders now. "And don't you forget it."
When she was finally—finally—able to fall asleep again, she could hear his steady heartbeat pounding in his chest.
Author's Note: There's a bit of a story behind this; I work in a customer service role, you see, and I've had people shout at me, insult me, curse at me, throw things at me... All because I'm doing my job. One of my coworkers was threatened with bodily harm because a client didn't like the music we were playing. Another one kept being touched by another customer and was laughed at when she told him to stop. So, as extreme as this story may seem... it's not. Not really.
Next time you're in a store or at a restaurant or you have to call your cell phone company, please try to remember that these are people, too, and they're just trying to make sure they can pay their bills.
TL;DR: People are assholes to customer service personnel. Please don't be one of those assholes.