Hardworking Hands
Winry Rockbell loved her hands. They were rough: calloused, scarred and burnt. They were maps carved in flesh; stories that told of her hard and mostly underappreciated work.
One would think that five years after the Promised Day Edward Elric would have learned some sort of lesson on caution, but she would still catch her husband limping towards her workshop with a sheepish smile on his face. He would say something like "Hey, Win," in the sweetest voice he could muster, knowing it was a lost cause, for she couldn't be fooled with flattery or sweet words.
"You ruined your leg, didn't you?" She would accuse with crossed arms.
He would then make up some half-hearted excuse, usually one that did not place him at fault.
That pattern annoyed Winry to no end. He was so careless, and rarely seemed to acknowledge how hard she worked. However she would admit that it was a little less stressful know that she only had to worry about his leg. Though, really, in the end it did give her even more of an excuse to spend time with her beloved metal.
She supposed most women with hands like hers would make sure to cover them with sleeves or gloves whenever they left the house. But for Winry, they were conversation starters.
"That's from when I stabbed myself with a screw from Mr. Pincett's pointer finger."
"Oh, that? I burnt myself fixing Ed's arm a couple years ago."
"I was making a foot for Mrs. Sharpe, and my hand got caught in the ankle. I had to get nine stitches."
Her scars weren't from battles, like Edward's, but they marked her as being just as strong.