"We ought to have a toast," Ed says, frowning into the depths of his bottle. "They always do when they're having a drink in someone's memory."
"Our boy here hasn't done a lick of work since eleven am, and she hasn't noticed at all. D'you think she's in love?"
It is a photograph that brings them together, and that's as it should be.
He was, to sum up, a pretty unpleasant guy to have at the head of your department in the holiday season.
At night, curled shivering on the layers of musty damp leaves under the glimmering stars, Ed lay silently and thought of unspeakable unknowns...
Trisha looked up in surprise to see her guest in the open doorway, barely casting a shadow in the sunlight that streamed in around her.
Etiquette doesn't quite cover situations like this one.
"I was your mother once," Dante told him with an air of great drunken magnanimity one evening.
It was such a beautiful way to die.
A spark of interest lifted his pale eyebrows, and he set down his fork.
Unfortunately, Winry's 'own devices' were becoming the death of Pinako's various household devices.
I, the stray dog of the desert, who sloped long and pale, slashed to ribbons, across the moonlight sands on my journey to God.
She stands beside him with her arms full of bandages, hoping the day he sees his own danger will come before the day he sets himself alight completely.
"If you've got something to say, say it," she said. "If not, hand me a fork, would you?"
Gentle and wise and intelligent and kind... and so unlike anyone she'd ever known in Xing...
She looked the wire over for a minute, noting where the insulation had been stripped away for retuning, then tugged it gently, careful not to pull too hard.
Brother likes to pretend that he doesn't care what goes on in the military unless it directly affects him. Or, you know, directly offends him. One or the other.
"No one shuns their duty in Xing," she said, firmly and leaving no room to brook argument, the way her elders had always passed the maxim to her.
It's the same nightmare all over again, but quieter this time.
"Pretty!" she says, and kneels to press her palms to the curls and knots chalked on the stones. "Papa! Did you drawed this? What's it for?"
It didn't really sink in when you saw the thing, all clumsy dangling wood and leather straps, like the arm of a marionette in a kids' puppet show.
He underestimates the little things, like how long it will take him to put his socks on in the morning, and she comes up the stairs when breakfast is long since over to find him crouched over a torn stocking, blinking back furious tears...