A/N: If anyone's wondered why I've kinda been not here (is anyone wondering? I haven't checked my stats in awhile, so I don't know my readersip so much right now)...yeah, I'm just coming off an all-nighter, right after staying up til or past 4am four nights in a row. It be midterms, and I am getting my ass kicked from here to Cardiff. Sorry DX! On the bright side, I love this drabble so much. Like, to an insane degree. Enjoy!!!
Disclaimer: no more than a functioning brain is
Cranes
Roy spends three years in the snow-drenched border outpost, folding paper cranes. There is little else to do: spending more than an hour outside on patrol is risking death, and medals can only be polished and books reread so many times. So Roy sits for hours by the fire and folds endless cranes out of brilliant variegated sheets the man brings with his supplies once a month, callused fingers smoothing creases and heaping birds on the floor.
In his saner moments, he admits even a thousand paper cranes can't bring Ed back from the dead. He still doesn't stop folding.
A/N: reviews make me happy - and I could really use the happy this week...