What happens when WAFF meets PWP: feeling good, little plot required.
"I know those court ordered anger management classes were years ago, but you've come such a long way."
When he received no immediate response, he drew back and let her go, and the aching vulnerability on his face made her blink in surprise.
Apparently, years of stress had jaded Ed into thinking that if things were looking good now, then something terrible must be around the corner.
More than once already, Edward had regretted turning down the offer of a ride home, despite the fact that the little house he shared with Alphonse was nowhere near where Havoc lived.
Anything, she reflected, is worth seeing you so genuinely happy.
He felt ten years old and small, pressed against a door that wouldn't open for a very long time.
It was the truth, but it sounded lame upon Edward's lips; the way her eyes hooded, she seemed to think so, anyway.
His boyfriend. He wants me to be his boyfriend. He's wooing me with gifts. I'm being courted!
He was coming to read Alfons pretty well now too, and from what Al did understand he could give as good as he got.
It made a lovely picture, with the moonlight streaming in thick and silver under the curtains, and Edward silently cursed everything that came to mind...
"Damnit, brother," Alphonse managed, and Ed grinned at him. "I was only away for a week!"
Alphonse washed, and Edward dried (owing to the automail; safer not to submerge), and between the two of them the stack eventually diminished.
Alphonse Elric was a gentle soul, and he detested fighting.
A collection of 100 word ficlets.
He would have killed, before a nonexistent God and Winry, to be that goddamn spatula.
This would be so much easier if he could just refuse the man to his face.
And he was tired, and he did eventually fall asleep, to the vague hum of voices in discussion downstairs.
He's a pessimist with an ego seven miles long; he's a scientist, too, doesn't approve of Al's books.
She laughs to see the grand scholar on his stomach on the floor of the living room, reading his sons a fairy tale from a fat little book.
Both Edward and Winry were on hand day and night, looking for anything they could do to ease his way.
Alphonse settled for a barely audible sigh and hoped that his brother knew what he was doing.
"He's the Fullmetal Alchemist," Alphonse interrupted, tapping his pen against his clipboard. "Are you sure you're up to the task?"
There was a lot to be said for experimentation, Ed thought later, when Al was curled up in his arms as Winry fussed in the bathroom.
"It's cold and dark and raining, and there are thugs roaming the street - brother, have a heart! He could be killed! He could become kitten stew!"
This is the most perplexing part, for Edward, because often he thinks, how in the hell did I end up with…?
People all have different ideas of beauty, Al knows, and no two ever appear to be the same.
He reminds Alfons of himself, in a way, back after he'd been first diagnosed with his illness; when he used to get up and stare at his face in the washbasin mirror every day and think, I am too young for this.
Ed's heart began pounding in anticipation of the rush he'd feel when the process was over.
"Of course, that depends how you define cruel," he adds, amused.
Alphonse had thought that he must have the bravest brother in the world.
At fifteen he had been intimidating; at thirty, he could be terrifying.
The only other tradition that was better than eggnog to Al, was that of mistletoe.
Ed imagined Al's expression would look something like Fletcher's did right now.
He was not ready to be an uncle! He was ready, however, to hit things and curse.
Around two o'clock in the afternoon, women around the city began to disappear ... and a crowd, primarily of females, formed along Third Street.
"Do you remember that song Mom used to sing to us?" He asked instead, concentrating on the tiny kinks of the inside of his detached leg.
The only problem was that Ed didn't know what the heck "getting some" was or what he was being congratulated for.
Al, at 17, had discovered that mornings were unbearable for the first time in his life, and waking up before ten o'clock in the morning was pure agony.
"This is disgusting," he said aloud, then poked his head through the door and yelled, "Brother! This is disgusting!"
Ed peeked into the last box and began to grin. "Twelve-layer chocolate cake," he said. "Wow, a whole slice."
The room had gotten hot and stuffy, and there was sweat on both of his hands, though the sheen on the automail had not come from his own body.