When the door opened three days later, Ed was still amid
the wreckage that once made up a work of prosthetic art.

Winry held a new arm in her hand and, as before, she kept
her eyes hidden by her bangs.

She stalked over to her friend and his futile attempt to
reconstruct her work.

"Winry I-"

Without a word, she struck him with the back of the metal
hand and had him back down in the position that had
caused him three days of painful experimentation.

With no concern for his agony, Winry slammed the arm into
its socket and tightened the screws and bolts.

She then grabbed his shirt and forced Ed to look into her
eyes for the first time since coming home.

They were dark, bloodshot, and tired but also sharp and
focused. They were puffy with little bags under
them.

"This is stronger and more complex than anything I have
made before," she declared, sternly through gritted teeth.
"It requires fine tuning and adjustments that only I can
make; not some grease-monkey from the motor-pool. This
is the finest piece of automail you will ever find. If you
break this I will break you."

With that, she let go of him and stood up. Winry calmly
walked to her room.

"Where are you going?" he asked, some pain and shock in
his voice as he stretched his new arm and rubbed the
place metal met skin.

"Where do you think? I've been awake for three days,"
she shot back, "I'm going to sleep you jerk!"