Welcome to Act II of Simple Things! In this chapter, we have some much needed rekindling of life, some kindness in craftsmanship, Ed's first steps toward recovery, as well as some brotherly understandings. I hope you enjoy!

Update 11/20/22: edited with improvements

Update 2/28/23: fixed dashes and hyphens

Update 8/8/23: mass update!

Update 9/25/24: mass update!

Ch 8: Flint and Steel

Of course, nothing in life happens right away.

After several drawn-out arguments, heated negotiations, and a reluctant understanding later (wherein it was made very clear that Edward never wanted to and never would accept that man's offer), Pinako agrees to do automail surgery...in one month. Before that, Edward needs to prove he's capable of handling it, mentally and physically. When Ed begins complaining and asking questions, she gives him the morbid truth.

"If I put automail on you as you are today, it would break your ribs and pull your hip right out of its socket."

That quiets him instantly.

So, he agrees to the compromise. Tomorrow, he will let her fit him for a regular prosthetic leg, and work on building up his strength before getting any automail.

The next day, Pinako takes various measurements of Edward's left leg, before moving on to his right.

"Why do you need to measure my right leg? It's fine," he says while she works.

"You want your new leg to match the other one, don't you?" A sly grin spreads across her face. "Although we could probably make it an inch long and it'd be just fine."

"IF ANYONE'S THAT SHORT, IT'S YOU, YOU OVERGROWN BABY!"

"I'm only short because I'm old. What's your excuse?" she teases.

Ed glares at her until she finishes her measurements. She repeats her process twice, probably to make sure it's as accurate as possible.

"Okay. I'll give these notes to Winry, and we'll have it ready tomorrow."

"Why does Winry need it?"

"Because she's going to help me make your leg."

"You're letting Winry help?" Ed asks in disbelief. The last time he saw one of her creations, several years ago, it looked more like a golf club than a leg.

"She's more than capable." Pinako pokes Ed's nose, grinning. "She might even be better than me. But don't ever tell her I said that."

…

The next morning, Winry bursts into Ed's room, jerking him from sleep with a rather undignified yelp.

"Moooorning!" she cheers. "Who wants a present?"

"Not this early," Ed mutters, pulling his covers over his head.

"Oh, come on, Ed…" he feels something hard jab into his side. "Presents are best early in the morning!" The thing jabs him again, and he turns, poking his head out of his blanket cocoon to see what it is. There's a rounded metal foot kicking him in the ribs.

"Is that mine?" he asks.

"Who else would it be for?" She rolls her eyes, whacking his arm with the fake leg.

"Wow, I never thought I'd be kicked with my own leg," he says dryly, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Alright, now that you're done being lazy, lemme show you how this works," Winry says, pulling a roll of bandages from her dress pocket.

"You're the one helping me?" Ed asks, maybe a bit harsher than he'd intended.

Winry looks a little offended, crossing her arms. "Grandma appointed me co-mechanic. So you'll do what I say."

"I'm older than you!"

"By a few months. And that has nothing to do with it! I know what I'm doing and you don't, so you listen to me, Edward Elric. Got it?" Winry stares Ed directly in the eye, so intensely it frightens him. And she used his full name. When did Winry get so scary?

He can only reply with a strained, "I understand."

Winry smiles smugly at her victory. "Good. Now as I was saying, I'll show you how this works." She moves his left leg a little, and he fights the urge to pull away. You're doing this for Al, just get over yourself already..."You have to wrap up your leg to keep swelling down and lower the risk of blisters. But without two hands, it'll be hard, so I'll help until you can get the hang of it. Hold the end of the roll right here." He does, and she wraps several layers around his stump. "You want more fabric where your leg goes into the prosthesis because you're putting weight on it." Finishing off the roll, she holds up the metal leg. "You put your leg in this piece here, and the strap holds it on." She points from a shallow metal socket to a leather buckle above it. "Obviously, this isn't as flexible as automail, but we make 'em so the knee and ankle will lock under pressure and unlock when there isn't any. When you're standing, it'll stay locked so you don't fall, but when you lift your leg, the joints can move." As soon as she's done explaining, the medical authority dissipates from her posture and voice. She hugs the prosthetic to her chest, suddenly looking eleven years old again. "...Did I do okay?"

Edward looks from her to her creation. He really doesn't know what to say; she's looking for reassurance, but that's never been his strong suit. So, he settles for saying, "I want to try it." Winry looks a little disappointed with that response, but nods either way.

She slides the strap up his thigh, then offers a hand so he can stand. He does, and she helps him get his leg positioned right so it sits in the socket, then pulls the strap tight so it'll stay on him. "There," she says, getting up from her crouched position. "No worries about it falling off. We tuned the shape of the socket to make sure it would fit your leg right. Try putting some weight on it, so I can see if the joints are working properly." She holds his arm tight, just in case the knee gives out. But when he leans left, the leg stays solid underneath him. Winry can't help but beam at her handiwork. "Now lift your leg up." He does, and the two joints release, letting the knee bend and ankle fall limp. Winry's smile grows. Neither joint moves much, because then it might not be able to keep up with his steps as he walks, but just having that small range of motion will do wonders for her friend.

Ed looks up from his feet (feet!) to Winry's face, taken aback by her expression. She's smiling, so wide and so genuine that it makes his own mouth quirk upward. She really put her heart and soul into this, he can tell. A rush of gratitude fills his chest with warmth, and he looks away. Boy, what she would say if she knew just how grateful he is.

As evidenced earlier, Edward isn't good at describing his feelings. So, even if the words that leave his mouth end up simply being, "Thanks, gearhead," he hopes she can hear the endless gratitude behind them.

…

However, the first time he has to walk, he almost gives up. He knew it would be hard, but he didn't think it would hurt so much. It doesn't help at all that his legs are so weak from disuse, but each time he puts weight on his left, it sends a stab of pain all the way into his hip.

"Come on, Ed, you can do it," Winry says softly. They've moved into the designated physical therapy space in the automail practice: a large room with various places and tools to exercise their limbs, prosthetic or not. She's standing at the end of a metal railing used to help patients learn how to use new legs.

"This freaking hurts, Winry!" Ed says through gritted teeth. He hasn't moved further than two steps since she pushed his wheelchair out of reach.

"I know it does. But it won't get better unless you keep going."

"How would you know?" he spits.

"It's like learning the violin. At first, your fingers blister against the strings, but eventually, they get calloused and don't hurt anymore."

"You don't even play the violin," Ed mutters, but considers the analogy either way. It makes sense; his skin isn't used to being abused like this, so he has to train it until it is.

If you do this, you can find a way to get Al's body back.

Ed slides his hand on the rail, moving his left leg forward. He can only put weight on it for a fraction of a second before throwing his right leg ahead. God, why does it hurt so bad? And aside from the pain, there's also the fact he can't feel a damn thing with a metal foot. He keeps underestimating when the prosthetic is going to make contact with the floor, even when he's looking right at it, and as a result, he keeps stomping down on it. Which, of course, hurts even more. How do people do this? It's just walking; humans have been doing that for millenia. Edward himself has been doing it for ten years...and now it's like he's a year old again, stumbling over his first steps. But he forces himself to keep going, and even if it takes five minutes to travel fifteen feet, he does it.

"That was really good for your first time, Ed!" Winry cheers. "Now, I want you to make your way back, and we'll call it good for today."

Ed looks at her, confused. "That's it? I thought I'd be doing more."

"Well, that's usually the case, but Grandma told me we can't overwork you since your body is so weak right now." A smirk crosses her face. "But don't worry. I'll have you begging for mercy within a week."

"Sadistic gearhead…" Ed mumbles, starting to make his way back along the bar. Winry moves the wheelchair back to the end of it, and for the first time, Ed is actually okay with its presence. He knows he's making progress now, and that's all he needs.

Once he makes it to the seat, Winry helps him take off the metal leg. "Grandma also suggested we give your leg breaks from the prosthetic at first. We want you to get used to it, of course, but we also don't want to overdo it and put you in so much pain you can't do therapy."

"Well, it already hurts like hell," Ed says dryly.

"I told you, that's normal." Winry examines Ed's leg, noting the bandaging is slightly tighter than before. "The wrap did its job in keeping swelling down, but I can still tell your skin is irritated. We should probably leave it until tomorrow."

Ed pouts slightly; he knows she's right since she's the expert in this, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it. He wants to jump right into everything, even if realistically he knows he can't.

He forces down his eagerness. It's okay to follow her pace. As much as he wants to work until he collapses from exhaustion, he knows that won't help in the long run.

Besides, right now, just having this motivation is enough for him.

…

The next day, after his morning therapy, Edward starts reading again. For the first time since committing the taboo, he's looking into alchemy. Books are spilled out over the floor, collecting in piles around him. Fully focused, his eyes slide across the pages, desperately hoping to find some more answers.

"I brought all the books in our room."

Ed looks up, seeing Al standing in front of him with arms full of hardcovers. The ten-year-old leans down so Ed can reach.

"Thanks," Ed says, taking the book on top and opening it. "We'll have to stop by home later to get the rest. I think I left some of my favorites in Hohenheim's room." Al makes a small noise; Ed looks back at him. "Something wrong?"

Al is quiet for a moment, contemplating voicing his thoughts. "It's just...are you sure you want to go back there, Brother?"

Ed looks down. He'd been so eager to get those books he hadn't thought about what that actually meant: stepping foot into the center of his sins again. "No. I'm not," he admits quietly. "But I have to. I have to get that research, because I have to find a way to bring your body back."

Al doesn't respond, and Ed looks questioningly at him. He's gotten better at reading Al's emotions, but right now, he can't quite tell what his little brother is thinking. "Al?"

Al is quiet for another moment before responding. "...Why are you doing this, Ed?"

Ed narrows his eyes slightly. "Because I want you to be flesh and blood again, why else?"

Al shifts a little. "I don't know. I mean, I'm happy to see you acting like yourself again, Brother, but...for some reason, it's also making me sad."

"Why would me trying to help you make you sad?" Ed asks, a small bit of irritation working its way into his voice.

"Because you're not helping yourself," Al says. "I don't want you doing this only for me. I want to help too, so we can not only get my body back, but yours as well."

Ed tightens his grip on his book. "No."

"Why not?"

"I don't deserve that. It's my fault we ended up like this, so it's up to me to fix it. And you're the only victim here, Al. I couldn't care less about myself."

Al's glowing eyes narrow. "Then I'm not going to let you continue this." He grabs Ed's book before he has a chance to realize it, adding it to the stack in his hands.

"Hey! Give that back!" Ed reaches as far as he can, but Al just lifts the books above his head. "For real, Al! This isn't fair!"

"Oh, this isn't fair?" Al says, an uncharacteristic tone of spite in his words. "But somehow, ignoring yourself and focusing on me is? Equivalent exchange, Brother. I think you should search for a solution for both of us, and since you won't, I won't let you find one for me."

Ed scowls. "You're lucky Winry took my leg because otherwise I would get those books."

"Oh yeah? How? I'm three feet taller than you, Ed."

"I will climb you if I have to." Ed grabs hold of one of the metal spikes adorning Al, standing on the seat of his wheelchair and trying to pull himself up.

Al shifts the stack of books to one hand, grabbing Ed by the shirt with the other. "No, you're going to hurt yourself," he says dryly, holding Ed out at arm's length in front of him.

"Put me down! I'm still your older brother!" Ed tries punching and kicking the armor, but it has zero effect on the younger boy. "This is betrayal, Alphonse! Let go of me, or I'll...I'll...I'll do something!"

"I have a better idea," Al says, tone deadly serious. Ed stops struggling; he's only ever heard this tone once or twice from his brother, and it startles him. Al is done messing around. "How about I put you down, give you your book back, and you start looking for a solution for both of us. If you don't, then I'll use alchemy to destroy all of them." Ed stares into the glowing red orbs marking Al's eyes. "I'm serious, Brother. I'm done watching you treat yourself like you don't matter. Getting you back to normal is just as important to me as getting myself back to normal. And I'm not going to let you neglect yourself any longer."

Ed stares for another moment before exhaling slowly, closing his eyes. "Fine." Al sets him back in his chair, still radiating anger. He hands Ed his book, then starts back toward the stairs.

"I'm going to talk to Winry. Yell if you need anything," he mutters.

Edward opens his book but can't focus. He internally curses himself; of course Al would be upset. Did he seriously think he could just leave himself out of this? He really can be an idiot sometimes…

Ed glances around the living room, catching sight of his fuzzy reflection in the glass doors on Granny's bookcase. It's no mirror, but he can make out the shapes of himself and his chair. The most detail he can make out is a bright halo of blond hair. It's the same color as Alphonse's—well, was—and the same color as their father's. He sets his head in his hand, watching the blurry reflection match his movement.

Would things have turned out differently if that bastard was still around? He's not sure. As much as he hates to admit it, it wasn't Hohenheim's fault Mom got sick; epidemics are a force of nature. But maybe, if the man didn't walk out on them, they wouldn't have tried to bring her back. Ed frowns. Any memories he has of his father are fleeting, lost in flashes of light along with other bits of his first four years of life. He's had a burning hatred for the man since he was about four and a half, but it's hard to keep it alight with so little memory to go off of. It's frustrating.

Ed looks back at his reflection. For a while after Hohenheim left, he hated being stuck with the same hair and eyes as that traitor. He wondered why he couldn't have looked like his mother, and even brought this up to her once. She replied that she was glad he and Al took their father's traits, because it made them unique, and she'd never seen a prettier color than the one she saw when she looked into her sons' eyes. Ed began to embrace his appearance after that; well...at least until she got sick. Then, the words didn't matter if she wasn't there to say them.

Ed lets his gaze drift to the empty spaces in his shirt and pants. He still doesn't feel like he deserves to fix himself; Alphonse is the only one who should get his body back. But he can't allow himself to make Al this upset again...So, he'll accept his brother's deal; if the only options are restoring both of their bodies or neither of them, he can put aside his self loathing for Alphonse's sake.

Ed looks over his reflection one last time. He can't wait for the day Al's glowing red eyes and metal shell can be returned to familiar golden irises and human flesh.

So... why did I choose not to jump into automail like so many (actually every single one I've seen) authors before me who've done this time period?

The reason is simple: that's not what happened.

Not only is Ed in no condition to undergo surgery right now, there is actually a short story by Arakawa that takes place between human transmutation and automail. It's called "Long Night", and it features Ed using a normal prosthetic leg (like the one he has to use in Road of Hope) and still with no arm (and therefore, no automail ports). Honestly, that just makes sense. He's got to work up to having automail, because automail is brutal.

As for my reasoning for Ed not taking Mustang's offer, the answer to that is equally simple: he doesn't think he has to. All he heard from that conversation was "find a way to get Al's body back". He doesn't need the military to do that... at least, not yet. He will get to that point soon, don't you worry.

Finally, I wholeheartedly believe Ed had no initial intentions in restoring his own body. I believe he felt like he deserved what he got, and it wouldn't be until his little brother snapped some sense into him that he would even consider fixing himself. That boy's guilt complex has got no place for his own needs XD

Oh yeah, and the title's a reference to both a method of firestarting (ie Ed's rekindling will to live) and the literal steel of the rockbells prosthetics. I thought it was pretty witty ;)

Loooooong A/N but I hope it cleared up my decisions for this story! :D