A/N: Sorry it took a while! This chapter got too long, so I separated them into 2 chapters. This is the Winry-centric chapter, so the next one will be Riza/Olivier. I changed the rating to M, because this chapter contains some violence and description of sexual assault. If you're not comfortable reading it, please skip the last couple paragraphs.

Rev. 12/17/20 [chapter title changed]

chapter 5: bare part 1

Senior Year, Two Years Ago

Winry twirls the pencil in her hand, occasionally biting the end of it, all the while staring at the book on her lap. Her exam would start in fifteen minutes. Reading aloud has helped her drill in facts and dates, but chemistry is on a whole other level. It demands more than quiet concentration. It requires a skill beyond reading and comprehension. Edward should have no problem with any of these at all, and a part of her begrudges the fact.

The rooftop door slams suddenly, and a blond kid Winry hasn't seen before emerges with a black eye and purpling lip. Two boys—one skinny and short, the other fatter than a sumo—appear not long after, grinning and sneering.

The small one struts past her, uninterested, and grips the white collar of the blond's uniform. He isn't strong enough to lift him up—the blond is tall and lanky, towering over him—but what he does not have the fat kid makes up in size.

"Where's my money?"

And that is all she needed to hear.

When the blond is shoved against the peeling wall, Winry takes out her cellphone and begins recording. They pin him down and press against his throat what looks like a folding knife, making him grunt. Then Winry tiptoes over, carefully, and shouts, "Hey! Let him go!"

The smaller one turns to her. His face pales as he stares at the device in her hand. "Are you… recording?"

She nods, smirking, dismissing the rapid beat of her heart. If an incriminating video is what it takes to get them to stop, then that's what she'll do. "Uh-huh. I'm gonna hand this over to Mr. Johnson. You guys know what he'll do."

"But he took our lunch money!" the skinny one argues.

"And this isn't the first time!" the fatty adds.

And Winry begins to doubt herself.

Stealing would have grounded her for a week, but her family would never have condoned violence. It happened to Riza, and look where that got her. Her middle sister had refused to go out during the daytime for fear of running into her dad. It wasn't healthy. And if Olivier were here, she would agree that what they are doing needs an immediate stop.

"Or I guess I can just show this to my cop sister. I'm sure she'll do something about you two."

At this, the sumo sprints to the exit faster than Winry ever thinks possible. The skinny one follows soon after, giving her the middle finger, swearing she'll pay for what she's done.

The blond crumbles to the ground, his chest huffing from relief. And Winry places a hand over her heart, begging it calm, and strides over to him.

She takes out the handkerchief from her skirt pocket and proffers it to the boy. "Here. Your lip is bleeding." And she gestures at her own lip, letting him know the offending spot.

Once he's composed himself—wiping her silk at his mouth, breathing deeply—he hands back her handkerchief and nods. "Thanks."

His freckled face and flaxen hair remind her of Ed. But the boy seems reserved. Like Riza. For a long time, the only two people her sister had talked to were only her and Olivier.

"You okay?" she asks.

He nods again, but doesn't say anything.

With her hands twined behind her back, Winry asks, "Did you really take their money?"

He jerks back at her question and snarls, "Hell no!"

"Geez, no need to get snappy. I was just asking." She extends her hand then, offering her name. "I'm Winry. What's yours?"

And the boy glares at her hand, as if it were a trick to make him spill the truth. Finally, he takes it and mumbles, "Russell. Is your sister… really a cop?"

"Yes, she is. That means you must be new. Most people around here know my sister's a cop. But she's a cop in LA, not here in Warrenton."

"I see," he murmurs. "And she's taught you self defense and all that?"

Winry tilts her head, considering. "No. Nothing like that."

At her answer, his voice rises in anger. "What if they didn't listen and beat you up?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I didn't think that far." And then she laughs, teasing, "My sister just drilled in me a really, really strong sense of justice. So either way, cellphone or not, I would've come and helped you."

Russell stares at her then. Deep consideration carves a path across his smooth forehead. But he doesn't let up. He stares so hard it prompts Winry to turn her eyes elsewhere, embarrassed, awkward.

Then he smiles.

Senior Year, Valentine's Day

"A new timing belt is due when you hit 100,000 miles. Take good care of it and it will last you a long time."

Her customer, an older man in his seventies, tips his hat and thanks her. Soon, he leaves the garage, and that allows Winry some time to digest her conversation with her older sister.

"This isn't the way for a young woman to live," Olivier chastised. It was one of their rare phone conversations.

"Mom and dad did this all their lives and they raised us just fine," Winry argued. It was true. There hadn't been a day her parents complained about their meager wages and arduous labor. Black grease and grime were all in a day's work.

"You're better than that," her sister said flatly.

Olivier hadn't raised her voice, but Winry knew she was displeased. Greatly. Indifference was Olivier's way of subduing her growing emotions.

Calmly, Winry replied, "I'm staying here. You do what you need to do. I'll be fine."

The call disconnected without another word.

Olivier didn't bother saying goodbye.

The lunch she has packed in the morning is a bowl of beef stew and apple pie. Her mother had been gifted in the kitchen, and her recipes were as homemade and delectable as they come. Winry, needing to care for herself after her sisters have left, began to tinker with them. First, it was the stew. That was perfect the way it was. But the apple pie could have used a hint of ginger. And if there is anything Winry is good at, it is taking apart a true and tried method and making them better.

From under the rollup door Russell emerges. The garage has closed for the day, and Russell has had to crawl in, dirtying his jeans. He pats his legs clean and looks up at her. He has a bouquet of roses in his hands.

"Hi Winry. I, uh… I got these for you…" he stammers. He sticks out the arrangement, presenting it to her.

Her stomach knits unpleasantly. Russell is a friend, but she cannot look at him like that. When he presses forward, walking into her circle, her heart begins to pound. Loudly.

Reluctantly, she takes it and sniffs. "Thank you... These are pretty."

He smiles, elated. Words aren't his strong suit, but his ever-changing expression gives everything away. It doesn't hide his emotions. Nor his feelings, she thinks.

Not long after, Edward appears from under the same door.

His hands in his pocket, Edward says, "Ready to go, Win?"

Her eyes track between the two men. Edward is clearly wondering why the other is there. He doesn't say anything, but his narrowed gaze and tight lips reveals more than Winry needs to know.

Russell, on the other hand, keeps quiet. He darts his grey eyes between them, attempting to understand a relationship that Winry has not shared. When Winry does not explain and Edward ushers her away, Russell scowls.

Post-Graduation, Last Year

Edward has left for university a month ago, leaving Winry alone and in urgent need for company. Many of her friends have done the same, going out of town and state, searching for their future anywhere but here. Perhaps Olivier had been right, Winry thinks. Customers are dwindling and, soon, she will need to find new work. It will have to be a garage shop who can overlook her dainty legs and soft complexion. Winry admits she looks nothing like how a typical mechanic should look. Not that it should matter.

"Winry? Were you listening?"

In front of her Russell taps his cup with a metal spoon. Clink, clink.

He's trying to get her attention.

She smiles, blue eyes finding grey. "Yes, sorry! I was just thinking about something. Sorry."

"Were you thinking about Ed?" he asks suddenly.

It was completely unexpected, and it coils a strange sensation in her chest.

Russell is right. But he does not need to know that.

She shakes her head. "I wasn't."

But he marches on, his face disbelieving. "Are you sure? Because you seem to hang out a lot with him."

Winry chuckles. "Really, Russell. I wasn't thinking about him."

Scowling, he sticks his spoon out at her, as if giving her warning. "You don't have to lie, Winry. I don't like liars."

His discontent surprises her. Russell's temperament has always vacillated, calm one minute and irritated the next, but there has not been a time where he threatened her.

Uneasy, Winry looks down on her uneaten cream puff. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to their conversation than minding someone who is eleven hours away by car. She has agreed to accompany Russell, after all. Even when it took him many supplications before she conceded.

"He's just a childhood friend, that's all," she murmurs.

"Prove it," he says, licking chocolate off of his spoon.

Her breath caught. "What? How?"

"Kiss me," he says, nonchalant.

And his lack of expression is confusing and scaring her. Russell has a temperament, but he wouldn't force himself on her, would he?

"Uh…"

"Is that a no?" he asks again. This time, his brows slope down, menacing, sharp, turning him into a hunter and her a prey.

"I- I…" she stutters, rising to a stand. Her heart wouldn't stop thumping, begging her to run, far away. Her flushed face is hotter than a preheated oven. Then she apologizes, not looking at him and confronting the polished floor instead, "I have to go."

Then she grabs her small purse beside her and half-runs half-stumbles out of the coffee shop.

Last Week.

"Winry, can you come get me? I can't drive right now… I'm at Julia's..."

Russell was slurring. And he sounds drunk, she thinks.

Russell, however, doesn't drink. Winry knows this for a fact. One time, Russell imparted a tale of a father who left a wife and two sons after a night of heavy drinking. He wasn't always like that until work stress and financial issues blew his endurance out the window. Russell's father returned one week later, his face a mess, bruises from who-knows-where above his thick stubbles. As soon as his mother called off the police search for her husband, he disappeared again.

One month later the cops found him lying in a ditch, dead and bug ridden. Russell said half of his father's face had been unrecognizable.

"Clark Road, right? I'll be there in fifteen," she replies, disconnecting their call.

Julia Crichton's two-story house is situated off of the main road next to a rundown trailer park. Winry has never been here before, but surely the kind of people Julia Crichton keeps company isn't the sort she would seek. There's one too many drunkards and druggies.

Winry doesn't even need to knock. The door is ajar, and music blares from inside. At the threshold, she can smell vomit and sweat, see inebriated people swaying to hip hop with their eyes closed. There's at least twenty people. Some she recognizes as upperclassmen, people who graduated the year prior. Clearly, responsibility isn't something they'd drilled into their heads.

Her eyes scan the crowd. She doesn't see Russell among them. He, along with Ed, Alphonse, and herself, are the few blonds in town. Tiptoeing up the stairs, she weaves through people lying on the steps. Two of them are dozing off. One has their shaky hands over their head.

The first room in the upstairs hallway is occupied. A couple is making out, completely oblivious that Winry can see them from the slit in the door. Her lips tighten, disgusted, disappointed, and repulsion for the kind of people Russell spends his time with is making her wipe her sweaty palms on her skirt.

Why the hell is Russell even here?

Russell is in the next room. The only source of light is the nightlight socketed beside the bed. But Winry can see that he is alone, and he sits silently with a tangled mess for hair. His eyelids droop as though he hasn't slept in the last week. When he lifts his head up and turns to face her, Winry's heart stops.

"Winry… you're here…" he slurs softly.

He is drunk. There is no doubt about it.

She puts a foot forward, gingerly. "I'm here to take you home, Russell. Let's go home."

Neck lolling, Russell hauls himself up to a stand, his gait unsteady. He smiles at her and closes their gap.

"Have I ever told you... that you're... very pretty?"

With this, Winry paces a step back and flings her hands up as a barrier between them. She has never been afraid of him. Russell will never hurt her. But tonight, she isn't so sure. He isn't himself, and his pale, roaming eyes only serve to intimidate further.

"I like you a lot, you know," he drawls. And as if he's regained some of his sobriety, he leaps forward and places a gripping hand on her shoulder. "No. That's not right. I love you."

This time, Winry is scared. The pulse beneath her ears is pounding so hard it is difficult for her to hear. Her head begins to spin, and the compact room swirls around with her, even in the dark.

"Russell," she gulps. "You're drunk."

But he stands unmoved, his hand on her shoulder still, pinning her in place. He frowns. "Why didn't you say anything back to me, Winry?"

"We can talk about that later. Let me take you home," she mumbles.

Her hands begin to tremble, and when she attempts another step backward, Russell grabs her by the arms and tosses her onto the creaky bed.

In shock, Winry swings her arms around, pushing him away, hoping what is happening is simply a nightmare. But Russell is above her, heavy and persistent, and he starts to unbutton her shirt, forcing the hem up until she feels cool air on her skin.

"Russell, stop! Stop it!" she screams. "Help!"

But her plea for help is drowned out by the sound system from below. It is too loud, deafening. The couple next door, who she wishes had heard, never shows up. No one is coming. And that fear burns in her lungs and knocks the wind out of her.

In frantic self-defense, her legs kick around. She tries her hardest to pull them into her chest, creating an obstacle, and one now stands in the way between him and her. On his flat chest she plants her sneaker and shoves, hard.

Or as hard as she can manage.

But Russell is too strong, too powerful. He towers six inches over her, his long legs now caging hers. His strength is no match for her brawny father, or even Olivier, but he subdues her easily. No effort.

There's nowhere to escape.

And then he strikes her once, a hard slap that surprises her and stings her cheek.

"Stop moving around," he demands, glaring. His moist fingers reach for her underwear, and he yanks in down, scratching her thigh on his way down.

Hot tears pool in the corners of her eyes. Her frenzied hands are still fighting, her feet bouncing off the bed in an attempt to land another kick. But her mind is weary. Winry is so, so tired. She should have listened to Olivier. She should have heeded her call. Then she might not be here feeling scraping nails on her skin, forceful fingertips running down her leg.

Her eyes close to muffle his heavy breathing, blocking the world, wanting to forget.

And when Russell slips a finger inside, tears slide down her cheeks.

A/N: I'm sorry if you're a Russell fan :'(… but good news is Royai/LivMiles incoming within the next 2 chapters.