Sometimes in the night Edward would wake up suddenly. His powerful thrust upward into the sitting position would shake the sheet back and expose Winry to a suddenly cold atmosphere. His shaking limbs would pulse through the air between them, and his sweat would drip and ripple over Winry's skin.
"Ed? Ed, what is it?" she would croak out, her voice thick with sleep and sudden concern.
There would be a pause. He would breathe in then out. He was reorganizing himself into the context of the present. He was unfogging his mind -- pressing reality against his consciousness to let go of all that fear. He was remembering that he was in bed, tangled up in the woman who lay next to him. Alphonse was safe, sleeping in the room across the hall. Father was vanquished. His mother was gone still, but she was at peace, and he had accepted it. These things he knew -- the dreams could only remind him, but no longer haunt him like they once did.
"It was a dream, Winry." Laying back down, he pulled the covers back over himself and her -- taking the time to tuck it gingerly around Winry's shoulders.
His legs would find a perfect home intertwined with hers, and he would sigh as he readjusted his hands around her back. The skin there was as soft as cold, clean water -- it was the soft flux of grass in the wind -- her smell was as potent as rain.
"Just a dream." She would repeat sleepily, letting herself mold into the canvas of Edward's stomach. She could still feel the fear in him even as it dissipated.
"I am here."
"Yes." He would plant a soft kiss on the crown of her head, taking a few seconds to emphasize the words and the contact. The would roll over together and perhaps make love or perhaps go back to sleep. Either way, there was always a deliberate kiss. His fingers always stretched out to trace the line of her jaw.
"Just a silly dream."
Sometimes when waking up in the morning Winry would discover Ed was already wide awake. He would be looking at her -- eyes concentrating as if she were an equation to solve -- a puzzle to put together. Sometimes, he was out of bed, at the window or at his desk -- but always he was watching her with tenderness and fascination. There were a few times -- she could count them on her hand, that his gaze was sad. Winry could not begin to imagine the true nature of such a face -- such golden solemnity beneath him. She discovered after one of those mornings, that perhaps he had been looking out -- towards the hill to the east. There at the top of the mounds of earth had sat the house he had once lived in with his mother, father, and brother. Now, it was only ash -- the past was ashes and burnt bricks.
He was still carrying so much regret. Perhaps he would carry it all his life.
But she would be there, to hold him in the night.