Can we do this again tomorrow, what we did yesterday?
~ Lady Eldaelen ~
Once the adrenaline wears off and he is able to think about anything other than Al, Al, Al, he realizes that his arm is there (his arm!) and it moves and it feels and it hurts like hell and is weak and stiff and sore and a million other adjectives that will never describe his automail as perfectly. But mostly, it is there. And it is at his brother's earnest insistence that he finally relents and allows a Central surgeon to fish out the metal support band embedded around his shoulder that has been caught in the phenomenon of a spontaneously regrown limb. Ed is certain that there are a couple bits of metal buried deeper still, but he will leave them for Winry to find later, whenever they get to her, personal discomfort in the meantime be damned. Ed is also quite sure that there will be a time when he will not indulge in Al's every whim, but that is no time soon.
He is in the therapy room when she finds him, distractedly curling a weight in his right hand. His attention is focused much more intently on the grim-faced adolescent walking laps with a nurse on the other side of the room. Seeing Al gain strength every day, with every breath, is well worth the wait, even though it means more time spent in a hospital than Ed cares to add to his own tally. He doesn't stray far from Al's side now that he finds himself with whole hours and days to rest and breathe. He is not one to look too far beyond the end of a goal, and on the other side of his most important achievement, he thinks he may be able to get used to this 'normal living' thing. The stitches at his shoulder twinge in agreement and he calls it a day, dropping the weight between his feet.
"Had enough, Edward?"
The voice is soft yet amused, and he tilts his head up towards the face and person it belongs to.
"Lieutenant Hawkeye!"
"No need to be so formal, Ed," the woman replies as she takes a spot beside him. Her hair is down and it is half covered by her collar, but he can still see the scar at her neck, is reminded of the events leading up to her receiving it, and he frowns at the thought that his is one of the happier endings.
"How are you doing?"
"Much better, thank you."
"Where's the Colonel?"
"Keeping Jean company while Dr. Marcoh gets everything ready." She gives him a sly smile that is only half joking. "He expects your final report to be the first thing he reads when he returns to the office."
"I'll keep that in mind," Ed answers with his own half-truth.
"I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get this to you," She pulls a small bundle from her handbag and places it between them on the bench. It is a scrap of fabric that looks like half a ripped shirt and smells suspiciously of Mustang himself, and nestled in the cloth is his right hand. Well, most of the palm anyway. And half of the pinkie.
He stares at this most unusual offering from Hawkeye, can picture her picking it out of the rest of the battle's rubble with the same accuracy that she targets bad guys and afternoon naps, and finds that he cannot stop both his hands from reaching out to grasp the battered piece of machinery. Ten flesh fingers tighten around four missing metal ones as his mind fills with memories of weary goodbyes and streams of tears, heated complaints and clear blue eyes narrowed at the edges of a frown pulled just for him.
He chokes out a thank you and bites back the urge to yell at Al to hurry up so they can go home.
090210 lj fma_fic_contest prompt 78, handcuffs - third place finish!
