For years Ed had been the pinnacle of her automail creativity. He had forced her to rethink design after design, developing new parts and pieces specifically for him. But with Buccaneer committed to forsaking his — wistful sigh — M19 Mad Bear prosthetic, she found herself again sketching design after design and finding nothing worthy enough to be its successor. Self-doubt and cups of coffee fueled her through the hours of scratching away at paper. How could she, an automailer from a small town in the southeast, build something better than the M19?
She slept in her workshop that night, with the windowcast of the Sun and the Moon rippling across her face. Her dream was no longer the comfort it had been; it was uneasy and agitated. Kimblee's voice was urgent. She could feel the weight of hands on her shoulders, his nails digging in and the lines of his tattoos burning through the well-worn linen of her shirt.
Buccaneer found her bent over the quenching vat when he entered the workshop the next morning, carrying a plate for her with him. He didn't speak; there was a moment of eye contact, and he set the plate aside on a table then made himself comfortable on a crate to watch. She worked through the day, cutting and grinding, moving to the bending machine. It would be a lie if she said she'd worked with proportions like these before. Building Buccaneer's arm was closer in circumference to building a man's leg. She saw now why his arm had been fully modified and specially crafted; no off-the-shelf model could have fit him. His prolonged presence made it easier for her in some ways, whenever she worried she'd somehow written numbers reversed he was there for her to remeasure without a word.
He left once when someone arrived at the house, and it might have made her laugh to see his confusion when they explained they were there to connect the television as well as the computer. Instead she remained engrossed in her world of carbon fiber and aluminum. She refashioned the connector from the severed end so that he would still be able to connect his other M19 extensions to it as he pleased. The diamond-tipped claws she also recycled into the new model, unwilling to surrender what was arguably her favorite feature and had certainly cost him a fortune. The sunshine gleaming through the stained glass window faded, and moonlight streamed in to take its place. Buccaneer exchanged her untouched plate of food for another, but she didn't notice that either as she worked, surrounded by the bright standing lights of her shop. When that plate went ignored as well, he exchanged it for bringing coffee instead.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, and maybe it had been, she didn't dream of the eclipse. Kimblee's velvet words didn't creep down her spine. Later — much later, long enough that there was nothing she could do — she'd realize her head was clearer, and that a knot in her chest had lessened. Had she realized it sooner then maybe she wouldn't have made the decisions she would in the coming days. Maybe when Buccaneer asked her that question, her answer would've been different. Instead her thoughts were shorter; shallow. Nostalgia of remembering how Ed would be over her shoulder while she tried to work, a stark contrast to Buccaneer's quiet observation. Ed hadn't ever brought her coffee either, and it would've done wonders to keep him in her good graces during those all nighters working on his automail. Working with Buccaneer's company was quiet and pleasant.
She had to form several of the springs herself; none of the springs included with any of her crates would have worked for the sheer size his automail needed to be, and she'd severed his. She was able to transfer the pneumatic actuators from the old arm, fortunately, because once she saw them she realized they had been custom-built, too. It would've taken her days more of work to make those, while the springs had been comparatively a short project.
At the end of the second night, sleep overcame her — and her dream jarred her awake, the comfort in it shattered. Winry inhaled a trembling breath as she awakened, glancing around the dark room in quiet confusion before realizing Buccaneer must have moved her to her bed. She found the shower, then dressed and returned downstairs to her workshop, and she didn't leave again until the arm was finished.
Another thing she would realize, months later when all was said and done, was what these days reminded her of; Izumi and Sig's home in Dublith. Their synchronicity in proximity of one another. It would take far less time — a matter of only a few days, actually — to realize the silent contentment in the atmosphere of her small home with him there. But again, by then it would be too late.
"How many times have you done this?" she asked when Buccaneer waved away her offer of a leather strip to bite when she was ready to connect his arm to the housing unit.
"Every time I want to switch models," the Captain answered casually. "I probably have a dozen different types of arms back at Briggs. Whenever you're ready, just attach it."
Winry took him at his word, and locked it in. His spine went rigid and he grimaced, but that was the only sign she'd done anything to him at all. She'd seen stronger reactions from grown men getting an injection. Even Ed, who'd solemnly sworn that whatever he'd suffered would be nothing compared to what Alphonse had gone through, broke more than that every time she installed a new limb.
Buccaneer swung his legs off the exam table and began to rise. She reached out, touching two fingers to his chest and pushing him back down with the slightest shove with her Nen. His face was almost comical, caught entirely off-guard by the ease in the action.
"I didn't want to compromise its use for common wear," she explained, bending his arm, "so I didn't go with anything too robust. But there's a barrel in the forearm that takes .45 rounds. The trigger is here. You'll want to practice at the range before putting it to practical use. A lot of builders tend to put them in the joints, but depending on how much it's use all that recoil will eventually cause a malfunction, which is why I chose the forearm instead. Here's where you activate the laser sight—"
"Laser sight?"
The question caught her as off-guard as he had when she'd pushed him back down. It took her a long moment to remember that Amestris didn't have that kind of technology yet. Instead of explaining, however, she simply slid open the panel again and pressed the button, then pointed to the red dot on the wall across for him.
"To help you aim."
She had done everything she thought appropriate for a soldier; another panel slid aside for a sheathed dagger to drop out, while a short switchblade had been installed near the wrist. She'd remembered how the M1913-A Crocodile operated with its gas-powered chainsaw, and had installed a small motor — not required for regular function if he preferred not use it — he could run gasoline through to warm the automail and housing unit, to protect his shoulder from frostbite where metal met flesh. She had installed the diamond-tipped claws exactly as they had been.
"You're a piece of work," he marveled to his automail as he looked it up and down once more when she finally let him off the table.
"It's not a Mad Bear," Winry admitted, "but I can say with confidence it's the best thing I've ever built."
"We should celebrate then."
Winry took out her phone and glanced at the date.
"It's Friday, there should be a televised 200th floor match." Her brow creased. "But they never came to install the hook ups for the television. Damn."
"They came four days ago."
The rest of the day passed swiftly. She washed, and when she returned downstairs they cooked together, side-by-side. When the match came on — it was Dorado versus a young boy named Zushi. Winry wasn't even aware of how she kept pausing the television, using Gyo while she watched then explaining to Buccaneer what was happening that he couldn't see. The boy was giving Dorado Hell though, and the commentators made a point to say how close he was to challenging a Floor Master. It was hard to imagine a child being on par with the likes of Hisoka and Chrollo, but if he had had gotten this far then who knew.
"He's using Ko," she was explaining, "in his fists. It's what I did earlier so that you would sit. But Dorado is focusing on using Shu, concentrated in the blades of his—"
Winry tore her eyes away from the screen to see Buccaneer reclining back on the settee, eyes watching her with amusement. Her voice lapsed into silence and she dropped her eyes, embarrassed. There was a strong moment of déjà vu, and she remembered the look Sig had given her when she'd waxed poetic about airships. Their expressions were completely different, but his focus on her suddenly made her too aware that she was rambling.
"Why did you stop?"
She had no answer. He beckoned for her to come sit beside him, and she did as the fight continued to play on the screen behind her. Winry let him draw her into the crook of his arm and drape a blanket over her while they watched the match. Occasionally he asked what had happened, and she would use turn it back several frames and explain.
Then he asked another question; the one she had known he'd put off and delayed through the whole time he'd been here.
"Come back to Amestris?"
Her mind hadn't changed, and she shook her head no. Then he asked a question she hadn't foreseen; "What if I stayed."
And for a moment she could see it. She saw them side-by-side in the kitchen every night. She saw him bringing her coffee while she lost herself in the process of creation. She saw this moment, together doing nothing special but content with that much, as how they ended every night. What if he stayed?
Then she imagined when Chrollo and the Troupe arriving on her doorstep, their offer of a place in their ranks still warm. She imagined kissing Buccaneer goodbye while she left to live her sordid life, and washing the blood off her hands before returning home to him. She imagined sleeping beside him at night while she dreamt of killing Scar. She imagined his reaction when one day — and it would happen one day, because secrets inevitably always find the light — he learned the truth.
"I would like that," she whispered, blinking the haze from her eyes, "but I don't think you should."
Because she knew that if Chrollo came, though she could decline, she wouldn't want to. Because alongside the Spiders she finally felt as though she'd found her place. Because she wasn't willing to pay the price it would cost for Buccaneer to stay.
Buccaneer didn't push her away or leave. If anything, his arm around her held her a little tighter, as though savoring this while it lasted. The exhaustion from her long nights working overcame her and she fell asleep, comfortable in his grasp, and she dreamt of the Sun and the Moon until she heard Hisoka's voice drawl, "Am I intruding?"
