Al waited to say something until Ed's hair brushed his shoulders.
A man can do terrible things in the name of his uniform--his leader, his service, his country. Then he spends the rest of his life going crazy or chasing penance.
She accepted the label and its implication without argument, lifting the revolver and sighting along its barrel.
Al should've never told his mother the box was a present for Winry.
These days, he loves the movies.
Winry muttered something Scieszka couldn't quite catch, brow furrowed as she leaned in to adjust something on the switchboard.
Al's slightly hollow voice positively echoed with embarrassment but he bravely soldiered on...
“The General,” I answer. “He resigned his rank and got a transfer. They sent him up North. He’s alone there. I couldn’t talk him out of it.”
Winry was ten when her grandmother commented that she already needed training bras.
PR, we need PR, he kept telling himself, but at this point he didn't think he could string more than two sentences together.
When dealing with the military, it always paid to look ready for inspection. Neatness counted; passion was suspect.
She'd barely managed not to wail But it's Yoletide! and prove herself both spoiled brat and country bumpkin.
Winry could not imagine going so far for someone whose name you couldn't even say. She couldn't imagine going so far without allowing yourself to say his name.
You'd have to be inhuman not to quake in fear when she stares you down.
As much as he loved his family, Alphonse Elric wouldn't have traded these moments alone for anything.
It was kind of ironic, and kind of inconvenient, that Rush Valley, the capital city of automail, was also hot as hell for half the year.
"Brother," Alphonse said, voice soft with horror, "I think that Winry's going to kill you."
"Oh, what would YOU know? said Winry. "You've never looked at a girl in your life."
Thank you General Mustang. At least that creep was good for something. Winry still wasn't convinced he was good for Ed.
Unfortunately, Winry's 'own devices' were becoming the death of Pinako's various household devices.
It’s February in Central. There’s nothing better to do.
Okay, his hair wasn't brushed, and it had been a while since he'd gotten a bath, but he didn't think it was anything to blush at.
Winry had never gotten to appreciate the leather pants in her current position as the person who got to unzip them.
"I remember the flavor too; it was strawberry. It's still his favorite."
It wasn't easy to imagine how he had been mistaken, because Al could swear that even from a distance, a hanged man looked very different from a tent post.
But the harsh light of early morning sharpens the hard angles of desperation on Al's face so instead Ed smiles, all teeth, and lies, "Of course."
It was a pleasant thing, warm and innocently tender.
"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."