Twisted Logic

She'd had no idea anything had happened before the phone call came, of course. She never did. She often wished that life had blessed her with some sort of sixth sense that alerted her before these things happened to her. She wasn't fussy. Even a vague uneasy feeling on those particular mornings would have been enough. But, sadly, she'd been born just the same as everyone else in that regard, so had received no startling premonition.

In fact, before the phone rang it had been a good day. She had spent the morning working on a new forearm, ordered by a middle-aged man whose previous mechanic had suddenly and unexpectedly died of old age. He'd been in a bit of a dilemma, he admitted sheepishly to her while she took measurements, and hadn't known where else to go. Well, Winry was determined to do well; no, to do so well as to ensure that the Rockbells would never again be treated as a last resort.

So the morning had gone by quickly as she plotted out the wiring, basking in this thought, and all too soon it had been lunch time. She ate fast, in a dream of sparking wires and tight-fitting bolts and creaking metal joints, excited by the prospect of a new customer and impatient to return to her work, new ideas leaping into her head all the time.

The phone rang for the first time, when she was halfway through her meal. Unwilling to risk indigestion for the sake of a mere phone call, probably unimportant and from some customer with a minor fault that could certainly wait for a minute or so, she had allowed herself the time to finish her mouthful. By the time she reached the workbench where the phone sat, it had stopped ringing.

She huffed, now resentful that the mystery caller wouldn't even give her the time to answer, and turned her back on it, leaning on the bench and folding her arms, looking around the kitchen. Then she caught sight of the dirty pans cluttering the sides, and remembered the washing-up.

She was tied begrudgingly into an apron and up to her elbows in soap suds, cursing whatever god had invented baked-on grease, when the phone rang again. She glared at it as she dried her hands. "Can't anyone call me when I'm not halfway through something?" she muttered, stalked over to the side, realised that she had asked an impossible question as she was constantly busy, shrugged, and picked up the phone.

"Rockbell Automail Prosthetics-"

"Is this Winry?" a voice asked, clipped and businesslike. Without waiting for an answer, the caller continued. "I'm First Lieutenant Hawkeye. I believe you are acquainted with the Elric brothers?"

"Y- Yes, Winry speaking," she said hesitantly. "What about them? What have they done now?"

They had been admitted to hospital a while ago, after sustaining serious injuries: a gash on Ed's skull and a wound to his shoulder, both requiring stitches, alongside a handful of other, more minor injuries; a large dent in Al's breastplate, and a number of deep scratches.

"Hospital," Winry said. It was the only part she had registered.

"I heard that you have known them for some time, so I thought it best that-"

"How?"

Hawkeye paused, evidently wondering how much she should say. "They were involved in a fight somewhere on the Western border. I hear that they discovered some sort of facility, illegally manufacturing artillery."

Artillery? Winry knew that the boys tended to take on difficult opponents, but an illicit weapons factory? "Are they there? Let me speak to them," she demanded.

Hawkeye hesitated again. When she spoke, Winry could detect a touch of sympathy in her voice. "They left the hospital earlier today and didn't appear to have intentions to contact you. They didn't ask me to call. I only thought that as their friend, you had a right to know." Riza found herself wanting to apologise on behalf of the Elrics, even though there was nothing she could have done to change their behaviour.

"They left?" Winry asked in disbelief. "So they recovered. Ed's automail was fine, so they recovered?"

"His prosthetics were in full working order. Despite recommendations, they checked out this morning."

"I see," Winry said quietly. "Thank you."

Riza almost said something more, but checked herself. "Good afternoon, Miss Winry."

The line went dead.

Winry stared at the receiver, fighting the urge to fling it at the wall and scream abuse at it. What were those idiots thinking? How could they get into so much trouble, time and time again, and not even call her to tell her they were fine, or even that anything had happened at all? Ed was such a moron at times, never bothering to tell her about anything except problems with his automail. It was as if he thought that was the only problem she was good for, or worse, as if he didn't think she needed to know about anything else. Maybe she didn't. . . But that wasn't the point! And Al was just as bad, happily going along with everything his big brother did, regardless of anything else, least of all the way she felt about it.

Actually, maybe Al was worse. He didn't even have any automail to tie him to home.

It was only years later, at Elysia's birthday party, when Mr Hughes explained the twisted logic of it to her, that she began to understand a little better. They expressed more through their actions than their words. They didn't want to bother others with their problems. It sort of made sense.

But then again, Winry thought, picturing the two of them wounded in some hospital somewhere whilst she whistled over an old man's prosthetics, it really didn't.

Author's note: I thought it was about time I branched out from Ed and Al and start writing about other characters. . . so I wrote a story abot Winry thinking about Ed and Al. --;

Thanks to Wolf-demon13, unheardgoodconscience, Banana Rum and Amber for reviewing one of my other stories. Special thanks go to kelol, who reviewed two stories. Whoo! I love you all!