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The pub is small and sort of dingy, and the few patrons already inside throw him glares like daggers when he walks in, but he barely notices. He takes a seat in a corner and spreads his books out on the table in front of him. Most of them are stuffed with papers, notes and bills, and the margins are scrawled full of blue and black ink.
Somehow, he’s reminded of his father’s library, long gone and burnt, and of a lady who had gasped when she saw what he had done to these works of history.
Ed doesn’t really have patience for these thought processes now. The books he buys are not unique, and he buys them with the intention of using them and gaining all the knowledge that is to be had from them.
Now, however, he’s not concentrating on the writing in front of him. His eyes keep glazing over, and he hates how he can’t focus. He’s not tired, or particularly hungry - it’s just that something has been bugging him.
It’s a small thing, really, a stray thought, but like so many seemingly innocuous things, it’s becoming a nagging issue that’s overriding his brain.
He’s been missing out.
Not on alchemy - well, technically, but that was a choice. Besides, there’s other ways to be of use to this world.
Not on Al’s quest - they keep in touch. As does prospective Fuhrer Mustang, annoyingly. If Ed had to guess, he’d say that’s probably because being a known associate of the Fullmetal Alchemist is good for PR. And maybe because Mustang, after reversing the punishment he’d been saddled with, feels a little guilty about Ed’s.
Not on the world, either, surely. Ed is conquering it, village by village, library by library, more with every piece of knowledge that he gathers.
It’s the small things that are keeping him awake and unfocused.
He hasn’t seen his son in almost a month.
In infant-time, that’s forever. So much happens in three weeks. He has no idea what he looks like now, or what new things he’s learned.
He probably doesn’t even recognize him.
Ed pushes that thought away as soon as it surfaces - babies surely don’t remember many things anyway, right? And he’ll be back. He will. He’s not turning into his father.
It’s that last thought that makes him stand up sharply in his chair, scraping it against the floor rather loudly. Heads turn, but he ignores them, and strides over to the bar, where a bored-looking bartender is polishing glasses.
“Excuse me,” he says, “do you have a phone I could use?”
She picks up on the second ring.
“Rockbell’s Automail, how can I help you?”
She sounds chipper, but Ed knows her Customer Voice. She’s probably stressed - should she be in the workshop again so soon? Shouldn’t she be resting? Is there an unexpected surge in automail demand?
The questions pile on top of each other, and he forgets to even open his mouth.
“Hello?”
“Ah- hey, it’s- it’s me.”
He fumbles a little, and he hates it - but the thought vanishes from his head when she speaks again.
“Oh, Ed, is that you?”
Immediately, her normal voice returns - and with it, unexpectedly, (wonderfully,) a little bit of breathlessness and plain, unfiltered joy.
“Yeah. Hi.”
Great. So articulate.
“Hang on.” Winry’s voice drops, and he can practically see the frown on her face. “Did you do something stupid to your leg again? Is it broken? How did it happen, were you overworking yourself again? Did you get into trouble? Edward Elric, must I remind you that you’re not a child anym-”
“Winry,” he interrupts, and he couldn’t mask the sound of his laughter, even if he wanted to. “The leg’s fine. Of course it’s fine.”
She huffs, and he takes that sound and tucks it carefully away for when he misses her most. “It had better be. Making it cost me more sweat and tears than it warrants.”
A brief pause.
“So is it your scar, then? I told you, removing some of the screws might leave you with phantom pain-”
“My arm’s fine.”
“...oh.”
He hears her nonplussed expression, practically feels her posture relax. She’s probably wrapping the phone cord around her finger already, she always does that, fiddles with things when she’s not paying attention to her hands, a nervous tic.
“How- how are you?” he asks, eventually. The question feels wrong, awkward. Not his own.
Winry seems to think so too.
“What’s going on? Did something happen?”
Ed exhales. “No, no. I just… wanted to call, I guess.”
“...no emergency? No book you need me to look something up in? No message for Ling, or word from Al, or-”
“I just missed you,” he says, before he can stop himself. He hates, hates, hates that he’s blushing. He hates that she knows he is.
He also knows she’s surprised. Social calls aren’t really what they do, they never have.
“...oh.”
Her voice sounds so small. He finds himself holding the receiver more tightly.
“...why are you back in the shop?” he asks, just for something to say. “I thought you were still resting?”
He can hear the soft smile, and it makes his chest tighten. Shit.
“Oh, Pinako’s been a saint. Saw how antsy I was getting and gave me permission to tinker a little, y’know, provided I don’t overwork myself. Plus, she likes watching the baby. I’m pretty sure she’s a little in love with him.”
Just like I’m a little in love with you. Or a lot. A whole, huge lot.
His words aren’t working, and Winry has started rambling in that wonderful way that she does. “I kind of… made something for you. For when you come back. Nothing huge or anything, but I think you’ll like it. And I can give you the newest upgrades for the leg that I’ve been working on.”
“Mmh.”
“Where are you right now?”
He becomes aware of his surroundings again - the phone is in the hallway off the main bar, so it’s a little quieter here, away from the record player and the lull of conversations.
“Some bar,” he says, shifting his weight. “Near the border.”
“Figured. Have you met up with your friends yet?”
She’s referring, of course, to the people he met on his first trip west; families that took him in, other travelers he shared train compartments and cars and guest houses with.
“Nah. I’m… I’m not planning on staying very long anymore.”
Really, most of it is research and double-checking sources. There’s some scholars he wants to talk to, but the most prevalent tug he feels is not out into the world, but back in the direction of home.
The realisation is strange, to say the least. He’s always been restless, thirsty for knowledge, filled with a craving to go higher, further, larger. Now, however, hearing Winry’s voice has him almost ready to turn back instantly.
Winry hesitates a fraction of a second before her next question, enough for him to notice.
“When… do you know when you’ll come home?”
“...around two weeks, maybe. I think.”
He hears her sharp intake of breath, and it jolts him as well.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you’ll make the sheep festival?” Her voice has perked up a bit, and he can’t help but smile.
“I’ll try.”
They lapse into silence for a moment, and Ed allows the warm feeling in his chest to rise and envelop him. “It’s good to hear your voice,” he says.
She lets out a breathy laugh. “I miss you. We both do. He keeps looking at me all accusingly, as if I’d made you disappear.”
He hears the pout in her voice, and it’s ridiculously charming.
“I’ll… I’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
~
When his train arrives at the station, the festival is already drawing to a close. The earlier train had proved impossible to catch, so now he pushes towards the door impatiently, barely waiting for the train to fully stop before he’s hopping out of the compartment, suitcase in hand, (and a small bouquet of flowers in the other - he’s trying not to think too much about it) and jogging across the platform.
There are people scattered all around, waiting to board, to go to whichever town they call home, after spending their day in Resembool - but there’s still enough people milling about between the stalls in the marketplace to create a small crowd.
Ed weaves through the sea of people, careful not to whack any unsuspecting children with his luggage, even though he’s distracted - his eyes scan faces, trying to find the one that he’s looking for.
Maybe she’s already gone home - it would be a shame, he’d meant to surprise her, to sweep her off her feet (like she deserves) - maybe she’d resigned herself to waiting another day, even though he doesn’t want her to have to wait for one more second-
And there she is.
She hasn’t seen him; she looks relaxed, leaning back on one of the benches and watching the people walking by. Her eyes sweep the marketplace idly, slowly, and everything points to her being completely at peace - except her hands, those hands that always give her away. She’s tapping the bench beside her with one of them, while the other is fiddling with the string of her pants in her lap. Her posture doesn’t betray a hint of unease, but he can see it in her fingers.
He hasn’t thought about how to greet her, or anything. No dramatic entrance, no fanfare, no nothing - but now that he sees her, he can’t even find it in himself to stop and consider. He just picks up the pace, walking swiftly towards her, excitement already bubbling up in his throat.
As if she senses his approach, she turns her head just in time, and he has the pleasure of watching an incredibly wide, happy smile stretch across her face, and color rise to her cheeks.
“Ed!”
She’s barely gotten to her feet when Ed, discarding his luggage, sweeps her off of them and into his arms, giving them a little spin before allowing himself to pull her close, burying his face in her hair.
She smells just like he remembers, always a little of cinnamon and a strange combination of gear grease and soap, familiar and safe, like home. He breathes her in, tucking her head under his chin and squeezing her tight.
“Hey,” he mumbles.
Her arms squeeze him back, fisting into the back of his coat.
“...flowers?” she asks, incredulous but happy.
“Eh, yeah. Thought I’d… y’know. Get you something.”
“Unbelievable,” she says, like he’d suggested something preposterous. He lets the words hang unanswered between them, choosing instead to focus on the relief that’s flooding in now, and slowly settling. It’s real. He’s home.
He gives her another squeeze, and he can hear her smile.
“Welcome back,” she says, and leans up to press a kiss onto his cheek.
A tiny twinge of leftover embarrassment stings his stomach, but he forces it down. Who cares if people see?
“‘m home,” he whispers, both an answer to her and to his own incessant thoughts. Right where I belong.
“He’ll be so happy to see you,” she says, tightening her grip just a little, where their hands are swinging idly between them.
“Mmh.”
He adjusts his luggage over his shoulder, swinging it gently back and forth. Winry’s the one holding the flowers now, close to her chest.
“You still haven’t told me about your research!” she’s saying. “Did you find what you were looking for? Why are you back so soon, anyway?”
Ed can’t stop the smile that’s creeping over his face, and tries to distract from it by pulling her a little closer, until their shoulders brush.
“No reason.”
She scoffs. “You don’t need to worry about us here, you know that, right? I’m doing just fine. I know you have stuff to do-”
“Hey,” he interrupts, squeezing her fingers. “I’m not back because I don’t think you can handle yourself. That’s insane. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Oh.”
She’s blushing, and she’s clearly mad about it.
“Well. A-Anyway, I have a gift for you, back home - I told you I made something, didn’t I?”
“You did. Even though you were supposed to rest,” he says with a grin.
She rolls her eyes. “Not you, too. It’s been weeks and weeks!”
“You’re too impatient.”
“You’re one to talk!”
He lets out a short laugh - she stares for a second, startled, but then she snorts.
It’s hard not to get overwhelmed. He’s really missed her, a lot more than he’s admitted to himself. Once again he’s filled with a sense of pride and happiness, knowing that she’s his wife, that there’s no doubt that she loves him and will always be there, whenever he needs her.
Maybe admitting that he does isn’t so terrible.
The prospect actually has him kind of excited.
He lets her ramble on during their walk home - down the familiar path, towards the house that has always shown him warmth and compassion, a safe haven in troubled seas. Her voice is comforting, crisp and clear and free of the static of long-distance calls.
She fills him in on what he’s missed, content mostly with smiles and nods in response. She’s always understood him better than he gets himself, known what he needs, when to push, when to pull.
It’s kind of amazing.
When she unlocks the front door, he immediately recognizes the smell, and turns to her with a large smile stretching across his face.
“Apple pie…?”
She blinks, like she’d already forgotten about it. “What? Oh! Yeah, of course - I know you like it, so…”
“You’re the best.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure.”
“No, I mean it,” he says, shutting the door behind them and toeing off his shoes. “You’re incredible.”
He knows he’s pushing it, and she merely punches his arm in response.
“It’s just a pie.”
It’s not, though. It’s the memory of a promise, and an incredible journey - and the knowledge that here, his words will always meet an open ear, his heavy limbs will always find a place to rest, and his heart-
Well. That’s obvious.
Ed blinks himself back into reality when Winry tugs at his arm, dragging him away from the kitchen and through the hall towards the stairs. He must have spaced out, because she seems to have put the flowers somewhere, too. He sometimes forgets how energetic she becomes when she’s nervous or excited.
“He’s probably asleep, but I promised I’d bring you right back-”
He bites back a reply, and the ensuing incredulity - the kid’s barely three months old, after all - in favor of following her up to the first floor. Besides, there’s no denying the excitement he feels now, at the prospect of seeing his son again.
Winry pushes open the door onto a darkening room, long shadows thrown by the fading light of the sun that’s already set. It’s quiet, too - almost eerily so, but Ed pushes that thought away.
The chasing is over. No more looking over his shoulder.
They approach the crib - and of course, the baby is asleep.
Ed reaches down to brush a finger over his cheek.
“...too exhausted to wait up, huh?” he asks softly, hearing Winry smile in response.
“He did his best - but you did keep him waiting.”
“Out of my hands,” Ed says. “I’m sorry.”
She gives him a nudge and rolls her eyes. “Let’s let him sleep. He’ll be excited to see you in the morning.”
Back outside, Ed’s about to walk downstairs again, but Winry tugs at his shirt to stop him.
“Hang on. Let me give you your gift first.”
Without further explanations, she darts into her room ( their room, he reminds himself) and returns a moment later with something clutched behind her back.
“Here,” she says, holding it out to him with a bit of a flourish.
He opens his hand, and his skin connects with cool metal.
“This is-”
“A pen,” Winry says, clasping her hands behind her back, “made with the scraps from your arm, and Al’s armour.”
Ed stares at it, momentarily stunned. The detail on the handle is insane, it’s got carvings of tiny, pseudo-alchemic symbols and just the right amount of spiky-ness to be cool, but not inconvenient. It’s fantastic.
“I thought you could use it… y’know, for your research, when you’re traveling? As a sort of… a piece of home to carry with you, y’kno-”
He cuts off her rambling by reaching out to cup her face with his hand and drawing her in for a swift, firm kiss.
“It’s perfect,” he says, pulling back, taking in her startled expression and the (adorable) blush that’s shot across her face. “Thank you, Winry.”
“Oh,” she says, blinking hard. “Uhm. I’m glad, then.”
“Seriously,” he says, holding the pen up to examine it further, (casually leaving his other hand to trail down Winry’s arm, until his fingers find hers), “it looks so cool! I love it!”
Even though she’s flustered, she manages to give him a look that says I knew you would, you nerd, which fills his chest with warmth. Everything about it is incredibly endearing, and Ed’s heart aches with how much he’s missed her. And this pen, it’s more than enough proof that she feels the same way.
“...must’ve missed me a lot, huh?” he asks, because he can, and because he gets a childish thrill out of the mock-offense she puts on at the suggestion.
“What? No, I was just bored-”
“You can admit it,” he says, and allows his smirk to soften into a real smile. “I missed you, too.”
Something - his honest expression, his admission, all of the above - makes her blush even harder than before, and before he can fight the impulse, he’s pulled her into a hug again.
She struggles for a second, but then she relaxes, giving his side another nudge - this time with her fist.
“Don’t be stupid,” she mumbles. “...’course I missed you. You keep going off on your own.”
He knows it’s not an accusation - they’ve already had this conversation - but it’s still an admission that stings just a little.
“I’m staying home now,” he says. “For writing. And… for you.”
She pulls back, abrupt and quickly, concern on her face. “You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
“But your research-”
“I have all I need for my book, I think. And if not, I’ll send for what’s missing. I happen to have influential friends, with access to large libraries.”
“Ed-”
He smiles. “Seriously, don’t worry. I’m home now.”
She bites her lip. “...you mean it?”
“100 percent.”
She snorts a little, remembering. “...right.”
“Or 85, if you prefer.”
“God, just- just shut up. Please.”
“Equivalent exchange, right?”
She groans, dropping her head against his chest. “I hate you so much.”
“Mmh,” he says, arms coming up around her. “Sure you do.”