Work Text:
Somehow they didn’t talk much, even back then when there was nothing to do but talk; Ed still in pain from the surgery, his voice broken and rough—she’d tried to file away at those sharp, raw edges but there was just nothing she could do that would completely take away the roughness—
“People are like that,” Granny told her. “They aren’t simple to fix.”
None of Granny’s other patients had been so difficult to care for. Something about the way Edward (and Alphonse too) hurt reached out and gripped her by the heartstrings. Sometimes she almost couldn’t bear to sit with him.
The winter over (the constant cold aching into Edward’s stumps, leaving him unable to move on the worst days), Edward’s physical therapy began in earnest. Winry had seen grown men cry in frustration and pain during therapy as well, but Ed—who was not given to staying quiet when something upset him—merely bore up under it without a word.
“At least Ed’s doing okay, right?” Winry asked, tucking Ed in after he fell asleep on the couch, exhausted.
Granny paused in the middle of cleaning her work bench. She turned slowly toward Winry, her brows drawn into a frown. “Since we’re calling this the official start of your apprenticeship, Winry, there’s something you should know. A patient can say they’re fine, but have something else they’re not saying troubling them, or they might not be fine at all.”
Granny looked from Winry to Ed, meaningfully. “As automail engineers and surgeons, it’s our job to see when things are wrong without being told, ask questions that pull out the truth even when a patient doesn’t want to say it, and palliate the patient’s condition all we can. We don’t often have to deal with life-and-death situations like most surgeons; our focus is primarily on quality of life. How good is a leg if Ed can’t put his full weight on it without flinching?”
Winry thought back to the session; she hadn’t noticed Ed’s hesitance to put his weight on his leg at all.
“Exactly,” Granny responded to her expression. “Ed doesn’t use his words very well. We’ve all been on the receiving end of that. He’s a bit more extreme than most patients. If he keeps holding everything in…” Granny sighed. “I worry about that boy, Winry. Of course, Ed is strong, but we haven’t seen him reach his limit yet. When he does…” Granny shook her head.
“So we palliate?” Winry asked.
Granny took her pipe out of her mouth, smiling at Winry. “That compassion will take you exactly where you need to go, girl.”
The summer of 1911 was the hottest in years. Ed made progress slowly, but it wasn’t until the temperatures began to drop again that he really began to improve. He made leaps and bounds forward as fall arrived and the one-year deadline approached. Granny was equal parts proud and skeptical of his progress.
“I’m concerned that he’s going to push himself too hard and not realize it until it’s too late,” she confided to Winry, while washing her hands to start supper. The conversation was curtailed when Ed stepped in through the kitchen door, carrying an armful of vegetables.
“Granny, I sure hope this’s enough,” he grumbled.
“It’s enough when it’s enough, boy,” Granny said.
Ed tugged a chair out from the kitchen table and sat in it with a thump, sticking his automail leg out rather than bending it at the knee—Winry suspected his stump was still a bit sore, or else he was just being lazy.
“Edward,” Granny said in a warning tone, “move your foot. Someone could trip.”
Edward eyed her with an attempt at guilelessness. He raised his right foot and dropped it again in place with an audible thud.
“Very funny, mister. You know exactly what I meant.”
Ed grinned deviously as he slid his left foot closer to the chair legs. The sturdy boots meant to support his ankles became tools for intimidation in Edward’s capable hands. Unfortunately for him, Granny refused to be cowed by his antics.
“The next round of state alchemist examinations is coming up in a week,” Edward said.
“And you’ll be leaving us, I suppose,” Granny replied.
“You’re not gonna make me back down,” Edward said firmly. “I made up my mind. I’m gonna find a way to get Al’s body back.”
“What about you?” Winry asked.
Ed shrugged his left shoulder, calculatedly carefree. “I’m fine.”
“Make sure you come visit us, okay,” Winry said sternly. “You can’t put your lives on hold completely.”
Edward leaned forward belligerently, taking that as a challenge. He took everything as a challenge. “Who said anything about putting our lives on hold?”
“Anyway,” Winry said, making up her mind, “there’s one last thing I want you to do before you leave.”
Edward glared at her. “What’s that?”
“Come to the hayride with me,” Winry said. “You’re going to miss the rest of the harvest festival. It’s the least you can do.”
The afternoon wasn’t all that chilly, but Edward was still bundled up firmly. Granny had wrapped him in an old coat that had once belonged to Uncle Urey and a scarf before allowing him out the door, and Edward had to grudgingly admit that even if he felt flushed, at least the wind wasn’t reaching his still-sensitive stumps.
He and Winry sat closer to the front of the hay wagon than they ever had in the past, up with the older kids rather than buried in the piles of hay in the back as they used to do. Edward hadn’t gone the past two years—he’d been too weak still last year, and the year before that he and Al were in Dublith.
The hay wagon swayed slightly over the ruts carved deep into the dirt road. Natalie Aubergen and Tom Mays were kissing—disgusting. Ed ignored them, sitting bolt upright on the bale next to Winry.
He heard a soft metallic clack at his side, felt his arm jostle slightly, an odd sensation that felt like feeling but wasn’t, unaccompanied by the warmth of a touch. A sudden sensation of something missing washed over him, but he quashed it and looked to his right.
Winry’s fingers were looped through his.
Ed felt his cheeks heat as he shifted, lifting his left hand from his pocket and offering it to Winry, who accepted it. Less discreet than it would’ve been with her holding his automail, but then, it had been his mistake to sit down like this.
They held hands awkwardly as Mr. Peterson’s old nag slowly trundled the cart along.
“We will do this again, won’t we?” Winry asked, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” Ed mumbled.
“Someday,” Winry said. Edward nodded.
The hay wagon ambled amiably back toward Resembool, oblivious to the nip of the air and the fact that in two weeks, Edward would be certified as a state alchemist and would not be home for good for four years after that.