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Wings of Wax

Familiar

In the downtown section of Berlin, there was an out of the way, closet sized bar. Every night the same patrons gathered there. Rain or shine, they showed up. They always sat at the same place. Always came and left at the same time every night. Every now and then someone new would show up, but they never stayed.

Every night, usually around seven, a particular man, well boy really, he couldn't have been older than eighteen, would show up. He always sat on the third to last bar stool at the bar, closest to the door. He always ordered the same thing, scotch on the rocks. He always twirled the cup around, until the ice had melted, before swallowing it down in a gulp around ten twenty-five. He paid at ten twenty-seven and left at ten thirty.

He had an odd limp in his left leg. It was like it was too heavy for him to carry around. He moved always with an awkward gracefulness, almost like the leg wasn't his. On the colder, rainier nights, he would rub where his thigh connected with his knee. Almost as if the bone itself was aching. When they were exceptionally bored, the other patrons would sometimes wonder what had happened to one so young that could handicap his leg like such.

He never spoke. The bartender knew his order and had it ready for him when he walked through the door. He often sat and stared at his right hand. Flexing it slowly, relaxing it, and then curling it into a tight fist. He would sometimes grip tighter than normal and his back would tense before he finally relaxed and uncurled his hand. That right hand never gripped nor picked anything up.

He stared at the same journal every night. He brought it in, set it in front of himself and stared at it while twirling his scotch. He never opened it. He reached for it once, ran his fingers across it on two occasions, but never picked it up until he had paid and was leaving the bar for the night.

He sometimes also had a peculiar habit of pulling out an old silver pocket watch from his pocket and opening and closing it repeatedly. Staring at the front and then opening it and looking at a series of scratches on the inside cover. Sometimes he would set the watch on the top of the journal and stare at them both, conflict in his eyes, a frown, seemingly, eternally etched onto his face.

His height was also noted by everyone. He only reached about five foot one, barely reaching the bottoms of the chins of some men. He did not seem to notice too much, his presence still filled the room fully and completely.

His long hair was always pulled back into a ponytail, the perfect shade of Aryan blonde. But his eyes… they were something that none had seen before. Golden, sharp, cat-like and always narrowed, always filled with sadness, with anger, with distrust. Some believed that his eyes were some chemical experiment gone wrong.

Despite all of these abnormalities, the bar had grown used to Edward. He had become part of the night, like a picture on the wall. Never acknowledged, but always noticed.

It happened one night in late October. He never showed. He was gone for a full three weeks. It caused some confusion, but the patrons ignored it mostly, people would always come and go. Why mention it? Why question it?

At the very end of the third week he walked back through the door, limping less than before if at all, and took his same seat, picking up the drink the bartender sat in front of him with his right hand and gulping it down, signaling for more. He pulled out the old journal and a pencil, opened it, and started writing. He wrote until ten thirty before closing the journal, it's once blank pages now filled with mathematical equations, travelogues, and drawings, and placing it in his pocket. He paid and left with a smirk on his face.

He wasn't ever seen again by the bar. Rumors were spread that the Nazis had captured him near the beginning of the war for meddling. They say that he escaped and was now on the run. But they never were really sure. And they never spoke about the short brunette that would occasionally visit, order a scotch and leave. They could be mistaken, but the dull golden/brown eyes sure looked familiar.

A/N: So this is basically a one-shot about Ed and his life before Al comes back from across the Gate. I figured that even Edward would need a drink now and then, he hides his feelings well and I thought this would be a good place for him to show them.

Thanks for reading, please review!!

EdElricFan1001