"Morning After", Winry/Rose, PG-13, Theme #1 "Trace Elements"
Theme: Trace Elements
Rating: PG - 13 for implied sex, very mild swearing, and kissing
Pairing: Winry/Rose
Warnings: End-of-series light spoilerness, innuendo, lesbians?
Winry wakes to fading warmth on her pillow and a changed world. She breathes in and out and watches the rise and fall of her chest: feels the cold air with one small, sensitive toe, the tingle of the draught against her calves, sharp and ticklish. She rolls across the mattress, listens to it creak a little under her weight. Light splashes brightly across her eyes and she lifts a hand to shade them and rub away the sleep-dust gunking her eyelashes shut. She’s not in a hurry this morning: life can wait. Perhaps, she thinks, a little ruefully, she’ll need to get up soon and wash the sheets, but it’s not urgent. Pinako wouldn’t invade her privacy; anyway, she’s relaxed. Exhausted, even. The feeling is delightful and sad at the same time. She doesn’t spoil it with particulars.
She lies in bed in for a while, feeling the blanket cool, the winter trickle in through doors and windows. Then she yawns, stretches herself out, suddenly aware of how large she is, how languid, the tips and contours of her body. It’ll take a while to heat the water up for a bath. She tinkers with the boiler to start it up, listens to the bubble of the water inside and the hiss of the gas. It’s an extravagance, because usually they all share the hot water, one after the other, but sometimes on all-nighters she’s been so tired as to roll oil and lubricant into perfectly good sheets. There’s a good excuse.
Her mind’s beginning to work again as she turns the taps, lets the hot water rush through them and down. The sound makes her think of the sea, of the wonderful paddle-steamers and sailing boats she’d read about as a child, and she daydreams a little, distracting herself from the consequences again. There’d be a quay, and gulls, with a jetty out to the water - and here she sees just how to put it together, imagines the compensation needed for the swell of waterlogged wood - and from there the waves lapping against the sides, the sounds already around her, and a fresh breeze. Salty and sharp. There’s the tang of danger in her mouth, on her lips, and she takes a breath, doesn’t think about it yet. She’s almost scalded when she flops into the bath- she likes it hot, usually, but not quite this hot - and she sighs at the clean feeling, washes top to toe, stretches out once more. The lines of her body, blurred under clear and shifting water, are rather nice.
She knows there’s someone who finds them beautiful, now. Because - well, because they, they spent the whole night together, and what a shy and old-fashioned girl Winry Rockbell is at the moment! It was hardly the whole night, anyway, and that’s the stickiness in the situation. Not quite the right word. Oh, damn. Apparently she lives only to have the people she loves run away on her, and she doesn’t appreciate it. It’s not a good idea to be so insecure. She isn’t. There’re all sorts of reasons which don’t involve regret, and, anyway, look at the girl’s upbringing, look at her background. Yes, girl. Damn. Damn.
Her fists smack into the water, one-two, and bring up clouds of bubbles: the steam parts beneath them for a moment, swirls and soaks into her skin. She’s so clean she’s practically pink all over. Why does she want a bath so badly? Is she harbouring regrets? Best not to consider that. It’s just practical, after all. Not like she’d forget easily, is it? Not at all. These things should be easy. She chews her lip for a brief, ridiculous moment, and then straightens up to avoid her tips of her getting soaked, bundling it back up. She’s jittery again, but less so. There’s something calming about the water: another quick scrub and she’s out again, wielding a towel vigorously, determined to put her nerves to good use. At this rate she’ll miss breakfast.
----------------------
“-is it natural?”
Winry starts at her grandmother’s voice, feeling guilty at the sound of it, because, well, she’ll surely know. Everything’s written, hot and unerasable, under her skin, glowing outwards for all to see. Her clothes are a rather inadequate surprise, and oh why oh why is she thinking this?
She walks downstairs, jumps the last step in an attempt to hurry up and just get on with it, opens the kitchen door wide and sees Roze sitting quietly to one side, about as pale as she could get. For a moment, Pinako doesn’t notice, standing over - just over, really - the stove and stirring something delicious round and round with a wooden spoon. The spoon imprints itself clearly on Winry’s mind. She feels the back of her throat go dry.
“That hair of yours. I mean, how?” Granny says, idly. She hears Winry’s muffled cough, turns round. The corncob pipe waggles a little in her mouth with surprise. “Ah, here you are. You’re a bit late, girl!”
“…I…” Winry begins, burning under her overalls, hoping against hope that Roze cried afterwards from sheer emotional overload, that it was enough to hold her, that she didn’t run off because she hated her, hated it, was screwed up completely, and that her cherished granny would understand and just give things a casual shrug again. “T-trust me. It’s entirely natural. I - think it’s beautiful.”
The pipe drops out of Pinako’s mouth.
Roze blinks. She stares at Winry for a long moment and then scrambles out of her chair, leaving Cain with a very confused look in her wake, and runs over to hug her. Her arms are uncomfortably tight around Winry’s waist, but she doesn’t mind at the moment, doesn’t mind at all. They’re cheek to cheek, a little unbalanced, and the two of them fall back on the doorpost for support. Roze begins to laugh, a little hysterically, and squeezes her again, kisses her warmly behind the ear. Winry strokes her hair.
“Ahem,” Granny says, restored to full pipehood. Her expression is wryly amused, and Winry breathes a sigh of awkward relief. “You could have told me earlier, you know…”
“I…didn’t know how,” Winry says, panting. She disentangles herself a little from Roze, who has a shocked and ecstatic expression on her face. In fact, Winry’s not quite sure at this moment whether to be delighted or embarassed to death.
“You could have been subtler,” she whispers to Roze.
Roze giggles again, kisses her again, hard, right in front of Granny. “No one had ever said anything that nice about my hair,” she says.
Rating: PG - 13 for implied sex, very mild swearing, and kissing
Pairing: Winry/Rose
Warnings: End-of-series light spoilerness, innuendo, lesbians?
Winry wakes to fading warmth on her pillow and a changed world. She breathes in and out and watches the rise and fall of her chest: feels the cold air with one small, sensitive toe, the tingle of the draught against her calves, sharp and ticklish. She rolls across the mattress, listens to it creak a little under her weight. Light splashes brightly across her eyes and she lifts a hand to shade them and rub away the sleep-dust gunking her eyelashes shut. She’s not in a hurry this morning: life can wait. Perhaps, she thinks, a little ruefully, she’ll need to get up soon and wash the sheets, but it’s not urgent. Pinako wouldn’t invade her privacy; anyway, she’s relaxed. Exhausted, even. The feeling is delightful and sad at the same time. She doesn’t spoil it with particulars.
She lies in bed in for a while, feeling the blanket cool, the winter trickle in through doors and windows. Then she yawns, stretches herself out, suddenly aware of how large she is, how languid, the tips and contours of her body. It’ll take a while to heat the water up for a bath. She tinkers with the boiler to start it up, listens to the bubble of the water inside and the hiss of the gas. It’s an extravagance, because usually they all share the hot water, one after the other, but sometimes on all-nighters she’s been so tired as to roll oil and lubricant into perfectly good sheets. There’s a good excuse.
Her mind’s beginning to work again as she turns the taps, lets the hot water rush through them and down. The sound makes her think of the sea, of the wonderful paddle-steamers and sailing boats she’d read about as a child, and she daydreams a little, distracting herself from the consequences again. There’d be a quay, and gulls, with a jetty out to the water - and here she sees just how to put it together, imagines the compensation needed for the swell of waterlogged wood - and from there the waves lapping against the sides, the sounds already around her, and a fresh breeze. Salty and sharp. There’s the tang of danger in her mouth, on her lips, and she takes a breath, doesn’t think about it yet. She’s almost scalded when she flops into the bath- she likes it hot, usually, but not quite this hot - and she sighs at the clean feeling, washes top to toe, stretches out once more. The lines of her body, blurred under clear and shifting water, are rather nice.
She knows there’s someone who finds them beautiful, now. Because - well, because they, they spent the whole night together, and what a shy and old-fashioned girl Winry Rockbell is at the moment! It was hardly the whole night, anyway, and that’s the stickiness in the situation. Not quite the right word. Oh, damn. Apparently she lives only to have the people she loves run away on her, and she doesn’t appreciate it. It’s not a good idea to be so insecure. She isn’t. There’re all sorts of reasons which don’t involve regret, and, anyway, look at the girl’s upbringing, look at her background. Yes, girl. Damn. Damn.
Her fists smack into the water, one-two, and bring up clouds of bubbles: the steam parts beneath them for a moment, swirls and soaks into her skin. She’s so clean she’s practically pink all over. Why does she want a bath so badly? Is she harbouring regrets? Best not to consider that. It’s just practical, after all. Not like she’d forget easily, is it? Not at all. These things should be easy. She chews her lip for a brief, ridiculous moment, and then straightens up to avoid her tips of her getting soaked, bundling it back up. She’s jittery again, but less so. There’s something calming about the water: another quick scrub and she’s out again, wielding a towel vigorously, determined to put her nerves to good use. At this rate she’ll miss breakfast.
----------------------
“-is it natural?”
Winry starts at her grandmother’s voice, feeling guilty at the sound of it, because, well, she’ll surely know. Everything’s written, hot and unerasable, under her skin, glowing outwards for all to see. Her clothes are a rather inadequate surprise, and oh why oh why is she thinking this?
She walks downstairs, jumps the last step in an attempt to hurry up and just get on with it, opens the kitchen door wide and sees Roze sitting quietly to one side, about as pale as she could get. For a moment, Pinako doesn’t notice, standing over - just over, really - the stove and stirring something delicious round and round with a wooden spoon. The spoon imprints itself clearly on Winry’s mind. She feels the back of her throat go dry.
“That hair of yours. I mean, how?” Granny says, idly. She hears Winry’s muffled cough, turns round. The corncob pipe waggles a little in her mouth with surprise. “Ah, here you are. You’re a bit late, girl!”
“…I…” Winry begins, burning under her overalls, hoping against hope that Roze cried afterwards from sheer emotional overload, that it was enough to hold her, that she didn’t run off because she hated her, hated it, was screwed up completely, and that her cherished granny would understand and just give things a casual shrug again. “T-trust me. It’s entirely natural. I - think it’s beautiful.”
The pipe drops out of Pinako’s mouth.
Roze blinks. She stares at Winry for a long moment and then scrambles out of her chair, leaving Cain with a very confused look in her wake, and runs over to hug her. Her arms are uncomfortably tight around Winry’s waist, but she doesn’t mind at the moment, doesn’t mind at all. They’re cheek to cheek, a little unbalanced, and the two of them fall back on the doorpost for support. Roze begins to laugh, a little hysterically, and squeezes her again, kisses her warmly behind the ear. Winry strokes her hair.
“Ahem,” Granny says, restored to full pipehood. Her expression is wryly amused, and Winry breathes a sigh of awkward relief. “You could have told me earlier, you know…”
“I…didn’t know how,” Winry says, panting. She disentangles herself a little from Roze, who has a shocked and ecstatic expression on her face. In fact, Winry’s not quite sure at this moment whether to be delighted or embarassed to death.
“You could have been subtler,” she whispers to Roze.
Roze giggles again, kisses her again, hard, right in front of Granny. “No one had ever said anything that nice about my hair,” she says.