Disclaimer : FMA isn't mine.
Spoilers : Briggs arc.
A.n. : EdWin-ish. Imagine they're all reunited in Central for the "final confrontation with the Bad Guys".
Strong
He comes to her every day, now. The Homonculi won't give them a break, and his automail needs constant maintenance. He comes to her at dusk or before the dawn, looking victorious or beaten – and tired, always so tired -, knocking twice on her hotel room door and whispering the names of those who have fallen during the latest fight – on both sides - as she lets him in. She wills her tears away and never cries as she hears them. She's got a promise to keep.
Not many more words are spoken. He takes off his coat, shirt and pants and sits on her bed, and she immediately starts working on his metal limbs. Alphonse never accompanies him, his armour is much tooconspicuous. They have her move to a new inn every day and won't risk revealing where she's hiding to their ennemies. Edward himself has traded his scarlet coat for a casual brown one and his braid for a simple ponytail.
He sits in silence as she works, eyelids half closed, savouring the calm and quietness of the room. He always leaves as soon as she's done, and Winry knows better than to tell him to stay and get some rest, even just for an hour.
Al still has his metal body and Father and his homonculi still aren't defeated. He needs to concentrate on his goals. He needs to move forward. He needs to see by himself that she's safe and sound. She knows he comes to check on her as much as she checks on him, but now that she's experienced first hand what his everyday life is made of, she doesn't have the heart to ask him what exactly has happened, and she undersands why he never told her before.
He needs her safe, and he needs her strong, too. He needs her to be able to get mad at him –not that she does, these days, but it's the spirit that matters -, to support and encourage him. To push him forward. She worries enough as it is. If she knew which atrocities he now faces, she would downright panic. But blissful ignorance lets her hope and pretend that things aren't that bad, that he doesn't risk his life on a daily basis – his, and Al's, and Mustang's, and Hawkeye's, and so many others', and hers.
So she'll focus on fixing his automail, letting her hand linger on his knee or on his shoulder just a little longer than necessary, or even brush her lips against his forehead, offering as much comfort as he'll take.
She won't say a word but hug him instead, and kiss him again, and make sure that some light and strength have returned to his eyes before tightening the last screw. She'll watch him leave, eyes dry until he succeeds, her determination mirroring his. Strong.
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