Draw upon my body

The story of my life.

Tell the world my struggles;

Softening the strife.

Though our hearts be broken

We heal with every swipe,

And piece ourselves together;

-the pain being the price.

.C

—Afghanistan, 2011—

"There's no God. There can't be! How could he allow this?! How could he do this to Fullmetal!? Ed's not an asshole! He's a good person! He brushes his teeth and pays his taxes and holds open doors for people! How could GOD allow this to happen?!"

"Take a deep breath, Envy." Roy Mustang said, feeling just as angry and uncertain of the world as Envy took another swig from a vodka bottle and sobbed.

"How could God do this to Ed? First he takes his limbs and Hughes, his home and now THIS? His whole fucking life just GONE?! He'll never be the same after this. HE'LL NEVER BE THE SAME!"

Envy put her head in her hands and cried as Mustang's hand squeezed his subordinate's shoulder. His brow furrowed, and a tear fell.

—New York City, 2015—

She stood outside the graffiti-covered door and glanced back at her phone to make sure Google maps wasn't messing with her. 27 Wooster St was were she was going, but she expected the destination to be a little more obvious. She glanced around and blue eyes settled on letters engraved in a bronze plaque on the cement-block wall:

ALCHEMY

Shrugging her shoulders, she pulled open the door and scanned the list of doorbells before finding the one with the name matching the plaque outside, and pressed the button for the second floor. A few seconds later, a buzzer sounded and the stairway entrance clicked open. The pre-war building's hallway was muggy and hot, with old brown carpeting stretching to the back apartments and up the stairs. She ascended the stairs taking in the chips in the wall paint and feel of the solid wood banister under her fingers. When she reached the landing she was met with a single metal door, black and heavy looking with that word again, ALCHEMY, spray painted diagonally up the doorway. Her heart thumped nervously as her hand twisted the large silver knob, and she carefully pushed her way in.

Original wooden floors were dark and the boards narrow, much like the long-stretching room she entered. The walls were exposed brick, the ceiling was black, and the late July sunlight poured in from a massive front window. On her right were two beat up leather sofas flanking the large window and an ornate oriental rug on the floor that looked like it'd seen better days. The front desk jutted out from the wall to her left, an enormous and old baroque sideboard painted matte black with a macbook pro open on it's top and a small shelf mounted on the wall near it with several black three-ring binders. Sitting on a barstool behind the sideboard was a mousy woman in her 20's with large round glasses and short brown hair. Her eyes were fixed on the book she was reading and her arms were peppered with tattoos. Noticing she wasn't alone, she looked up from her book and smiled at her guest.

"Oh sorry! Didn't see you there, what can I do for you?" The bookworm with the brown hair said as she closed her novel.

"No worries, I have a 4:00 pm appointment."

The mousy woman who seemed to be a receptionist scanned an enormous open book that lied in front of her on the table top, her decorated finger sliding down the faint lines of the paper over scribbles of black ink and strips of white-out tape before coming to pause on one spot of the page's columns with a large 'X' over it.

"Are you the woman who consulted over the phone?" She asked looking up. Receiving a nod in return, the receptionist smiled and gestured to the couches.

"Make yourself at home. You're a little early, but that's alright. Your artist is just finishing up his lunch, I'll let him know you're here. Would you like some water?" She was given a friendly decline and was watched as she walked down the stretch of the room and disappeared through a door in the back, leaving the woman on the sofa alone with her thoughts. The previous three years had been long and tumultuous, and she'd wanted to do this for so long. The second the doctors and her lawyer had given her the ok, she ran into the nearest restroom to call the small tattoo parlor and consult with her artist on the phone, confirming her appointment.

Her eyes wandered over the shop taking in the gothic metal lighting sconces, wall paintings both large and small with intricate frames, the enormous antique mirrors with spots marring their edges that leaned up against a wall up front and one towards the back. The music playing was Metallica, the low buzzing in the background came from other patrons being worked on, and the numerous photos peppered throughout the shop's walls among the paintings were of famous clients pictured either alone or with their artist along with their scribbled messages of thanks. She noted they were mostly musicians, and most of the photos that were of more than one person had the same guy in the photo; no doubt the artist. They were all candid shots, either of him doing the tattoo or of them laughing while having a drink together. She rose from her spot on the sofa and crossed the narrow width of the room to more closely examine one framed photograph that caught her eye. A 4x6 in a gilded frame, with the same reoccuring man laughing with a wide grin and his arm slung around the shoulders of a smiling Lady Gaga.

"A mosquito on her ass." Said a voice behind her. She spun around and found herself staring at the face of the man in the photograph. He was dark blonde with slightly tanned flesh and possessed a friendly demeanor, along with the most beautiful golden eyes she'd ever seen.

"Sorry, what?" She said, suddenly remembering where she was. He stepped and looked at the photo as if he hadn't seen it in years.

"That's what she wanted. A big mosquito, like the illustrations of ones you'd find in old encyclopedias, in black ink on her left butt cheek. This was about a year ago." The woman blinked back at him and smiled nervously, amused by his story but unsure of what to say. He snapped out of it after a second or two and put the frame back in its place before turning to her.

"Are you my 4:00?"

"I'm not sure, I spoke to my artist on the phone a few days ago." She said. His face brightened a little and he put his hand out.

"You must be Winry. Good to meet you finally. I'm Edward Elric." Winry put her hand in his to shake it and noticed the way his black gloved hand felt abnormally solid under her fingers as she returned his greeting and he waved her to follow him toward the shop's rear. He stopped at a small alcove and sat at a desk-mounted lightbox situated between two walls.

"So, are we still doing what we talked about?" He asked, looking up at his new client. She was roughly about his age with long, buttery blonde hair and sapphire eyes. Her skin was creamy and pale, her nose was just barely freckled, her lips were pink and pouty. When Sheska had entered his office and said his next client was a 'young woman, really pretty' he'd rolled his eyes and dragged his feet assuming it was another basic college freshman who was 'living it up' and 'rebelling against mom and dad'. He hadn't realized his 4 pm was the same woman who he'd been communicating with via phone call for the past two weeks, and when she told him her reason for being there, he absolutely wasn't expecting her to be so …beautiful.

She nodded answering his question, and pulled out from her mini-backpack a folded piece of white paper with a very rough sketch on it, handing it to him.

"I was thinking of this for a concept, but I would love your input."

Ed's sharp golden eyes grew hard and assessing as he unfolded the paper and poured over the image.

"I've got some ideas. Are we still putting this on your back?" He asked. Winry nodded and he pointed to a booth across the way from the sketching table.

"I'll need to take a look at your back first, see what I'm working with y'know?" He told her as he stood and walked her over to the long, cushioned table in his booth. She nodded in understanding, her heart now pounding in fear of the moment she dreaded more than the feel of the needle on her skin. What if he looked at her and decided it couldn't be done? What if she was stuck being reminded forever? She shook the thoughts away and looked back at him.

"Right here?" Winry asked. She was incredibly self-conscious about her appearance these days, and it angered her when she thought about what made her that way. She never went to the beach because she didn't want anyone to see her in a bathing suit, she couldn't get dressed for a night out with her girlfriends who would borrow each other's shirts and swap outfits in front of them like they did in front of her, she hated every time even the doctors asked her to disrobe for their inspections of her. Now she was supposed to do it in public? Right in front of this stranger and then let him put his hands on her?

"Just remove your shirt and hold it to your chest so I can size up the area for the sketch." Ed explained. Winry took a breath and turned away from him, telling herself that this was fine. This was normal. She was okay. She pulled her straight, waist-length hair to fall over one shoulder before pulling her shirt over her head and off, but didn't peel it from her upper arms and pressed it to her chest instead. Adding to her uneasiness was the fact that she didn't wear a bra in preparation for her appointment. Edward watched Winry's shirt come off and when his gaze fell to her back his eyes widened. She had mentioned some scarring, he didn't realize it would be like this.

Long, vicious-looking lines marred her back in puckered, pink skin —as if some enormous wild animal had taken a swipe at her and gotten lucky. Suddenly he recalled the way her voice sounded on the phone, the shakiness and how it seemed like she was about to cry when she asked if a tattoo could cover scars. He ran a hand over his mouth as he thought how he would make this concept of hers fit her back so the scars would be diminished. He turned to dig in a nearby drawer and produced a marker.

"I'm gonna free hand the design directly on you, okay? It'll make it easier for me to map out what I'm planning."

Winry stayed silent, but nodded. Ed noticed how stiff she'd suddenly become, and something tugged in his chest. Each scar was the same length and went in the same direction, but were evenly spaced. They were too well placed to appear accidental, yet the lines were so jagged they couldn't possibly have been incisions from a surgery. He felt for her, and wondered what the hell could have made marks like these. He was determined to do whatever he could to bring her some peace as he set to work sketching out his plan for the outline. He finished several minutes later and told her she could put her shirt back on for a moment if she wanted, and she couldn't get it back on fast enough.

"Okay, so is this your first tattoo?" He asked.

"No." Winry replied.

"Good. So I don't have to tell you what this is gonna feel like." Edward said with a grin. "This session will be the outline, and I'll have Sheska book you to come back in a few weeks to fill it."

Winry's face fell instantly. "Come back? You mean we can't do it all today?"

"Afraid not. The outline will take a few hours and we'll be closing for the day once we're finished, plus I'm booked with clients for the next several days and you'll need a little time to heal between sessions. Don't worry though, everything will be fine." He watched her eyes fall and she suddenly looked like the saddest person in the world. "What is it?" He asked.

"…I just …I'm just dying to cover these things. I don't want anyone to see and I hate seeing them everyday."

"If theres any cancellations I'll call you and get you back in quickly." He compromised. "Are you ready?"

She nodded as he handed her a large white towel, and she knew it was time to ditch her shirt again. She glanced around the shop to make sure no one was looking as Ed sat on a rolling stool and began to lay down plastic cellophane on his sanitized work surface. She quickly yanked her shirt off completely and pulled the white towel to her front before sitting on the table. Ed immediately noticed the way she tried to curtain her hair down her back to cover herself, and a thought popped into his head as he removed the black nylon glove from his right hand. He was taking a risk exposing himself to a stranger given the controversial state of the nation, but she didn't seem like someone to be afraid of.

"Hey," He said turning back to face her. He held his right hand up to show her the gleaming steel that replaced flesh. "Nobody's perfect. You're safe here, okay?"

Automail prosthetics had completely revolutionized modern medicine and the way people coped with birth defects or devastating injuries. First invented in the early 1980's, the technology behind automail relied heavily on extensive knowledge not only of medicine but also mechanics; nerves in the human body were realigned and implanted into docking mechanisms or "ports" which were surgically attached to the body. These ports would become the point where an automail limb could be attached to the body. Limbs were designed and built from scratch by engineers same as the ports and were specially customized to be an appropriate size, shape, length, and weight to its owner. Masses of intricate wiring inside would be bolted over with planes of varying alloys of metal and could match as closely in sillouette to a natural extremity as a customer desired, depending on the talents of their engineer. A mechanized charge to the nerves planted in the port would pick up signals from the brain and allow the limb to move naturally, just as a flesh limb would. It was a fast-growing industry, financially propped up by the continuing conflict in the Middle East that so many American soldiers had been given first row seats to. To be a successful engineer in the automail industry took the brains, bedside manner, and strong stomach of a surgeon and fused it with the toughness, physical strength, and ability to wield power tools found in mechanics. Winry Rockbell possessed all these qualities in spades, and it made her one of the most accomplished and sought-after engineers in city.

Edward held his metal hand out to her to help her off the table, wondering what her reaction would be. She smiled at the sight of his long and strong-looking steel fingers and placed her hand in his.

Something changed, and they locked gazes for a moment as he held her hand in his and slowly stood from his seat to step a bit closer to her. His rational brain told him not to go there, and he shook himself out of the moment.

"I'll need you to straddle the chair and face the back of it." He said.

Something about hearing him tell her to straddle anything made her stomach flip. She followed his instructions and he took his place back on the rolling stool and pulled on some rubber gloves as he took out his equipment. Winry sat in silence, listening to the music in the shop and the buzzing from the booths near them, and started to feel a little calm again as she pressed her chest to the chair back.

"Thank you." She said. "For not being frightened by my scars." Little did she know that he was actually very alarmed by her markings, but not in the way she was thinking. He shrugged to feign indifference and replied,

"Thanks for not being afraid of my automail." She smiled again as she turned watched him prep what he needed before filling a little disposable cap with black ink from a larger bottle.

"Well, I wouldn't be very good at my job if I was afraid of automail," Winry said, finally feeling a bit like herself again. "I'm an engineer." Edward paused briefly in his movements of setting the brand new needle into his machine.

"No shit? Well, I've been so busy I haven't had a chance to get my arm looked at since my engineer moved to Seattle. The shoulder locks up sometimes when I move a certain way." She felt him wipe down her skin with something cold and wet before producing a plastic razor to shave the skin of any vellus hair. She stiffened slightly and bit back a gasp at the feel of the razor brushing along her skin.

"It could be an issue with your rotator plate." She hypothesized. "I'd be happy to take a look at it for you sometime. I work in a shop on the east side, near Houston and A."

"I'll look into that." He replied, finally prepared and he picked up his machine. "You ready?"

Winry nodded and pressed herself to the chair back again, leaning her cheek against the top metal rung. Edward pressed a hand flat to her back causing Winry to gasp out loud and flinch violently away from his touch. He sat motionless in surprise as his eyes turned to the long mirror running the length of the wall across from them and watched her vacant expression. Her eyes were blank for a moment before she blinked and shook her head, muttering a soft apology.

"Hey… we don't have to do this if you don't want to. You can just pay me for the equipment I opened and we'll call it a day. No hard feelings." Edward said softly, trying to figure out what had her so jumpy.

"No it's not that," She explained. "I want this, I need this. I promise I'll relax."

Edward told her to just breathe easy as he very carefully rested his free hand against her back to steady her, and she remained still as his machine buzzed to life.

"I'm gonna start with one small line to get you used to it. If you need to shift, sneeze, cough, anything, just tell me." He pressed the needle to her skin and slowly dragged it along the lines he'd drawn. Her brow furrowed from the pain but her tolerance level was higher these days. Once you've been through hell and come out the other side, nothing else would ever seem so bad. Being tattooed felt like the corner of a hot razor being stuck into your flesh and then dragged around over and over, but it was nothing compared to the pain she'd endured that resulted in the three, 10-inch gouges running down her back. Winry wanted to close her eyes, but couldn't for fear that if she did the images would come back with every pass of Ed's needle on her skin, so she looked across the space to the mirror and watched him.

He looked to be about 30, and stood a head taller than her 5'4 frame. His hair was long and dark blonde, but she wasn't sure just how long because it had been pulled into a messy bun and long, wild pieces fell framing his dark arched brows, his high cheek bones, his brilliant yellow eyes. He wore a long sleeve black tshirt with a loose neck that he'd pushed to his elbows, revealing one steel forearm and one of flesh, covered with intricate black ink. His shoulders were broad, his mouth was full and sculpted, and his hands looked strong as he lifted the needle to pass a paper towel over the excess ink. She couldn't deny that she found herself wanting to stare at him all day.

Edward's eyes focused sharply on the task at hand, only granting himself brief glances at her when he'd roll back for a moment to re-dip the needle or stretch his back and get comfortable. His initial shock from seeing scars had all but vanished now that she was presented in front of him with the skeleton of his art adorning her. Her porcelain skin was a treat to him as he took in her small but strong shoulders, the smooth muscles in her back from years as a mechanic lifting heavy limbs, the way it all taped down to her narrow waist before flaring out again in one of the best asses he'd seen in a while. Her modesty added to her appeal and a part of him felt guilty for appreciating that, because he had a feeling that her modesty didn't come from morals or standards so much as it came from extreme self-consciousness. She was beyond pretty, and Edward wondered if it was a case of body dysmorphia that ailed her, or perhaps a deeper reasoning for her extreme nervousness. If there was something she was afraid of, he didn't want to be the person who reminded her of it which was why he was determined to make this very important piece some of his best work yet. That was what he loved the most about his art form; it was a place of healing for people. It was a chance to remind someone of the good memories, or in this case, erase some of the bad. Nothing made him happier than easing someone's suffering with art. Tattoos helped people overcome the pain that life was constantly dealing.

They helped Ed deal with the torture of his own past everyday.

A/N: This story flooded to my brain because of an amazing fanart I stumbled across many months ago while I was still writing Nursing Wounds, and it quickly became a small-scale obsession of mine. I'm sorry it took me so long to crank this out, 3rd person is SO damn hard for me to write in and that's why I've been gone all summer. I really wanted to challenge myself when I drummed up this AU, and I wanted this story to have less humor because it's so angsty that my normal amounts of humor would soften the blow, so I wrote in a POV that I'm super uncomfortable with. Hopefully it worked.

In my typical fashion, I've already written most of this story so I'll be able to update more frequently, I only need to make smaller revisions (crossing T's, dotting I's) before future chapters can hit the web. I can't promise I'll be able to update every two or three days like I was doing for Perfect Blood, but I won't be leaving you guys hanging for more than a week or so between chapters.

Also, for anyone that doesn't know, I started a tumblr blog this summer for the purpose of staying in touch with you guys while away from this site. You can find the link to it in my bio.

I often stumble across fanarts, poems, and other things that remind me of key moments in my fics and this blog serves as a place to share those things as well as open up any discussion about my fics, seeing as I get a pleasantly surprising amount of private messages with questions about my stories. Basically I'm just a tumblr addict and this is another way for me to stay in contact with my amazing readers.

It feels great to be back, I'm beyond excited to finally share this work with you all and I can't wait to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading, there's more on the way.