murder of crows

Behind Door #10

Getting off the train, dealing with authorities, getting to a damn hotel—Edward could not wait for these things to get over and done with. He had been most rudely interrupted in, as Mustang might put it—well, it was some stupid foreign language and Ed didn't remember what Mustang called it but they were almost there and he was still cranky about the fact that it was almost and not all the way.

Sex on a train had some sort of bizarre appeal; he'd spent so many nights on them, why not lose his virginity on one?

His virginity. HER virginity. The thoughts were overwhelming as he kicked open door number #10 at the Inn they'd been graciously given a room at, free of charge. He tossed his bag to one of the beds; out of habit, he'd requested two. Was that the wrong signal to give? Did it matter? Was she even still interested? Could that have been a bout of pure hormonal insanity? Girls got like that. Al's girlfriend definitely had weeks of the month that she was insanely demanding and he was sure if he didn't go out there with a hose he was going to be a goddamn uncle!

He was not ready to be an uncle! He was ready, however, to hit things and curse.

"Edward, it's just a day's delay." Winry said, mistaking his agitation for something else. She was calm, at least; maybe she wasn't upset about the interruption. Maybe she was fine with it. Maybe it was all a mistake and they were going to forget about it all and he was going to see Izumi-sensei and by all that was holy in this miserable mud ball hell, he was going to ask her if she knew the secret to understanding women!

He hurled himself to the bed, and stared grumpily at the ceiling. Winry waited, with her bag in hand, at the end of it. Silence lingered like a thunderhead, waiting to unleash a torrent of—something. He wasn't sure what.

"—are you upset?"

"Yeah," he said, finally.


"I—I don't really know."

"About being—ah, interrupted?"

Winry set her bag on the ground, and came to the side of the bed. A moment later, the mattress dipped under her weight.

"Did—you not like that?"

"Getting interrupting? Hell no!"

She blinked, and then laughed, and the tension in her shoulders broke like kindling. "No. I meant—before the interruption."

"Oh." Now it was his turn to be quiet; was she in the same position? Wondering where his feelings sat? "No—I uh—I liked that very much," he managed.

"It did go a bit fast," she noted.

"We haven't even been on a date."

"I'm not that kind of girl. I've been on dates with other boys—but—never gone that far."

"I've never been on a date at all."

"I know."

"I'm twenty-fucking-one."

"I know."

Silence stretched between them. "We—have a lot of catching up to do, don't we?" She finally offered.

"Can—we—I mean—It felt right."

"It did." Her hand had inched across the bed with each back and forth protest and answer, and found his. Automail curled around her fingertips, and she looked down at his hand for a moment.

"Is—that what you want? Am I what you want?"

He tried to find a good answer; a definite affirmative, a proclamation of love, something. But they caught in his throat on a thousand other things. Instead, he sat up looking at her—searching her face like it was the roadmap to the answer he should give.

She loved him. She'd always loved him. He considered that perhaps, he'd always loved her. It was a good fit, a tight match—they just didn't know how to say it. He'd never been a man of many words.

Winry was a girl, though. She needed more; they were funny like that—always wanting to talk it over or have proof or some sort of silly validation; didn't his actions speak strongly enough? Wasn't that enough for her?

He would have to attempt a better translation, he supposed.

"C'mere," he said quietly, and she slid into his arms as neatly as she had before, fitting against his chest like she belonged there. He kissed her slowly now, with less confusion and rush, but no less endearment then he had held for her before this moment.

She yielded easily, arms sliding over his shoulders, careful of automail roughness beneath his shirt and he resisted the urge to fall back and take her with him.

It had to be one step at a time—one so they knew what they were saying to each other. One, so she understood exactly how he felt.

One long kiss to savor.

He broke away slowly, as if hesitant, mouth damp and lips swollen. His eyes had closed sometime in that, and hers too—they fluttered open to meet each other's gaze, and he smiled at her.

"I'm not good with saying things. But—you understand that, right?"

"I think I do," she conceded. "But you know, sometimes you're going to have to speak. Learn a woman's language."

He chuckled softly; now he dragged her down with him, to rest her against his good shoulder, shifting to roll her across his body like she weighed nothing. She curled against him, and they laid there a moment.

"Should we wait?"

"We could."

"Will it affect things?"

"Only how long I use the bathroom at night," he said dryly, and she turned scarlet for the subtle admission of his overheated flesh.

"We could start small," she suggested.

"Work our way there?"

"And grab a few dates between—then and now?"

He laughed again, and then looked at her, helpless. "Fullmetal Alchemist, on a date. That'll be a damn laugh."

"Well? Aren't I worth it? Woo me like a girl, Edward!"

He groaned; she sounded like Roy. It would have been the colonel's advice, too.

"Okay," he said a moment later. "I can try that. I don't know how good I'll be at it."

She laughed, and cuddled closer; his ardor wasn't going to ease, but if he ignored it in favor of her comfort, it'd eventually go away—and in the morning, he knew he'd be on the phone to his idiot brother with a steady girlfriend to ask his advice.