Ficlets!
Title: Ill
Pairing: Winry/Rose
Rating: PG
“Here,” Rose said. “I’ve brought tea,”
The mug in her hand sloshed with various miniature tides, smoothed into oblivion as it settled on the table: Winry observed these things with a sort of hallucinatory clarity, eyes half-shut, watching by the white china and Rose’s dark hand and trying not to breathe too hard.
“Nnnf,” Winry said, and tried to get up. She was sure that everything used to be lighter: it was an increase in gravity, maybe, a dragging down of hands, limbs, eyes, to the soft grip of the mattress. She wasn’t used at all to being ill. Mostly her body was more trustworthy; it was other people’s limbs which broke and withered, other people’s brows which burnt with fever. Winry was strong. She liked to be capable and run things herself; it was just the same with Pinako, but she was trying not to think about that.
Rose gave her an awkward look, and then moved as if to help her up, but Winry glared and made one monumental effort: parts of her she hadn’t even known she’d had creaked and squelched, and the starched embrace of the cotton pillow came as a great relief.
Her hands slipped across Rose’s and took the mug almost without shaking. Either the borrowed heat of the kettle and the fire beneath it or the life under Rose’s skin, the beat of her heart made her fingers so warm and tangible against her own: she was hardly cold herself, despite her best efforts to kick the bedclothes across the floor. The feel of her was soft and clean; Winry didn’t, perhaps, want to let go.
She took a sip, cradled the tea with the wavering strength of illness. “That’s just what I needed.”
“I’m glad,” Rose said. “My - mother used to make something like that, when I was younger. But I didn’t know if it would be too hot for a flu.”
“It’s just right.”
Winry drank the tea, watched Rose standing by the bed: the tea was, in fact, slightly too hot, but she didn’t mind. Her throat felt cleaner, clearer: she could feel the slight burn as it slipped down, and almost relished it compared to the dull mucus of before. She finished it fast and caught a fragment of Rose’s cautious smile in her own.
“You look a lot better than yesterday,” Rose said.
“I’m feeling better,” Winry said.
Which was true. There was just Granny to worry about, who wasn’t ill by definition but then had looked crumpled, almost dazed when she’d seen her. Like she was old instead of just wrinkled, and Winry was too exhausted all day to even get up let alone see her.
It didn’t seem fair that people could weaken like that. It was the flu, for heaven’s sake. It shouldn’t -
Winry chased the end of that sentence away, because Pinako was sinewy as old boots and would outlast Armageddon; all the things she’d always believed had to be true. She shouldn’t, just now, be swallowing to prepare for such a silly question. Her throat was raw and painful; she could name more reasons for that than just being unwell.
"You're still fine?" she said, mostly for something or anything to say.
"Mmm," Rose said. "As long as we don't have any customers turning up..."
A sudden, vivid image lit Winry's mind: Pinako, dying, while they made small talk for lack of anything else to say, and Rose had been here two months and woke up screaming sometimes and Winry might lose Granny, can't lose Granny. She felt five years old again; or the age she was at when her parents died.
Rose was waiting for some kind of answer: she opened her mouth to speak, and Winry shivered, held the mug closer. She looked a little worried, and there was something so tender about her expression and her barely parted lips that Winry felt almost comforted by that, as if the answer had to be good.
She swallowed and felt the cartilage in her throat squeeze into her. Interrupted. “Is Granny all right?”
“Mrs Rockbell?” Rose said, bright-voiced, the honorific she’d never lost sweet and ridiculous to Winry’s ear. “She’s practically out of bed, to be honest - I just don’t want her to overstretch herself or something, or infect people…”
“You’re just imprisoning her, then?”
“Winry! That’s disgraceful!”
The sternness in Rose’s face, the teasing in Winry’s voice were both mostly shammed, because Winry was not-that-conscious and floating on a great bubble of relief, not really thinking, and the expression in Rose’s eyes and body and hands was quite different, was tilted slowly and irrevocably toward the other girl. Neither of them were too steady with reality, for the moment, balancing out on some weird idea of domesticity as if they know each other much better than they do.
Amusement bubbled through Winry’s nose, and then she began to croak out laughter, embarassed, giddy, delighted at the world returning to its appointed place and Granny all right. The tea too hot and the sheets tangled over her and her pulse going faster and faster underneath the slime. The artifice melting from Rose’s face and the crooked, concerned smile she wore, the touch of her hand on Winry’s shoulder.
Yes, it made a difference to her; it was as if Winry herself had been opened wide for all to see, and her chest hurt but she didn’t. It wasn’t so bad - not so bad at all. She could use being looked after.
The complete incomprehension on Rose’s face slowly became a smile, and then a stifled giggle, which faded out when she heard Winry wheezing into the sheets.
“We’re behaving like children…” Rose muttered, blushing, and then smiled.
“Ah, well,” Winry said, trying hard not to cough her whole body out onto the clean new linen, “It...looks nice when you laugh.”
She watched Rose flush and then the lines of her mouth dissolve again into another giggle - maybe she just didn’t know what to say, anyway, and it was awkward. Though what’s a teased remark like that between friends?
Friends already. Just or not quite friends, of course, but - she did look nice. And Winry hadn’t meant anything by saying other than - it wasn’t that kind of joke -
Well, the girl shouldn’t be so pretty if Winry wasn’t going to get confused.
Rose swayed and laughed some more and patted down the sheets in an attempt to restore order; then, quite inevitably, she collapsed across Winry, still laughing, and didn’t bother to get up, happy where she was. So very close, and Granny was fine, and the sprawl of giggling, heavy girl across Winry was awkward, uncomfortable and...nice. In a weird way.
It wasn’t that much new to Winry because she’d spent her whole life crying easily, laughing easily, and getting riled up just as quick, but they felt as if they were closer than really Winry should be comfortable with, and Winry’s own troubles weren’t too often unloaded on other people because she was quite prepared to carry and treasure theirs, whole-heartedly; and that was how it felt. Whole-hearted.
She didn’t spoil the moment by touching Rose or commenting or moving, just leant back and snorted out some more invalid laughter, quite exhausted and with a sore throat to beat the band, happy. Rose lay across her already, warm and wriggly, quite comfortable for now, and Winry’s laughter shook her body and the body against her, resting on her, so that they bounced a little, up-and-down, and anyone who came in would have laughed, hard, or gotten the wrong impression but Winry wasn’t about to go there.
Rose’s legs kicked up and down where they dangled over the edge, and Rose’s head nestled beside Winry’s hip on the pillow, and the hem of her dress tickled the little side part of Winry’s flank exposed to air with the scissor-kicks of her legs. There wasn’t another adult in the world, as far as Winry knew, who she’d be so free and easy with.
They were quiet for a bit, and then very embarassed. Because Winry’s laughter quite plainly showed her fright, and Rose had dropped her barriers for a little while, and they’d understood each other, filled all the loneliness they carried completely for a few moments.
It was too much to really talk about, and they didn’t; Rose got up, avoiding any further contact as carefully as she could, and then said something under her breath about having to get back to the baby and cook nourishing stew for everyone and was Winry sure she hadn’t strained something? Her eyes were bright and awkward; she was halfway out of the room before she spun round and thanked Winry, quickly, for what she couldn’t quite make out.
Winry found she’d knocked over the tea in all the excitement - or it might have been Rose - and then began to smile to herself, all over again, as she mopped it up. That had been so ridiculous; so lovely, so improbable, and both of them just fine with each other.
A long time afterwards, Winry was very grateful for this moment; it had been the one time before Granny had died, four years later, that she’d understood she loved her dearly.
Title: How Many Years?
Pairing: Winry/Rose
Rating: PG-13
It should have been him. That was her first guilty thought, when she awoke, and traced the lines of the body next to her, remembering, sharply, all the sensations she’d forgotten recalled along with their dead originator, the broad back, the sunburnt patch around the collarbone, the caked salt across the spine, honest sweat, a good son, the feel of him breathing, shifting the body, wide shoulders, the knotted muscle across them that she’d rub clean of tension, the strong stomach her hands curled round (punch this, c’mon, it’s rock-solid, I swear) the dark hair slicked to the nape of his neck…
…and now this curve of girlish honeyed flesh, the velvet skin and the red marks where clothing had been. The tough, raw hands marked with work, the hair spread across the pillow, unfastened, the flax darkened to bronze with effort and emotion, the way the neck crooked, here, from all-nighters, the place where the curl of her body let a few vertebrae show beneath her fingers, the sharp warm shoulderblades under the skin, the long legs entangled with hers, feel of the calf-muscle, quite unfamiliar except to the eyes because she’d watched her for hours and, oh, Winry was too beautiful, too strong, too close.
She kissed the back of her neck, let her fingers slide down and across the skin, skimming away the sweat, found ‘dear, dear, dearest’ on her tongue where it hardly belonged and the fear somewhere else now, years stripped away, Cain dead, her faraway girl in her arms and cried for love.
Pairing: Winry/Rose
Rating: PG
“Here,” Rose said. “I’ve brought tea,”
The mug in her hand sloshed with various miniature tides, smoothed into oblivion as it settled on the table: Winry observed these things with a sort of hallucinatory clarity, eyes half-shut, watching by the white china and Rose’s dark hand and trying not to breathe too hard.
“Nnnf,” Winry said, and tried to get up. She was sure that everything used to be lighter: it was an increase in gravity, maybe, a dragging down of hands, limbs, eyes, to the soft grip of the mattress. She wasn’t used at all to being ill. Mostly her body was more trustworthy; it was other people’s limbs which broke and withered, other people’s brows which burnt with fever. Winry was strong. She liked to be capable and run things herself; it was just the same with Pinako, but she was trying not to think about that.
Rose gave her an awkward look, and then moved as if to help her up, but Winry glared and made one monumental effort: parts of her she hadn’t even known she’d had creaked and squelched, and the starched embrace of the cotton pillow came as a great relief.
Her hands slipped across Rose’s and took the mug almost without shaking. Either the borrowed heat of the kettle and the fire beneath it or the life under Rose’s skin, the beat of her heart made her fingers so warm and tangible against her own: she was hardly cold herself, despite her best efforts to kick the bedclothes across the floor. The feel of her was soft and clean; Winry didn’t, perhaps, want to let go.
She took a sip, cradled the tea with the wavering strength of illness. “That’s just what I needed.”
“I’m glad,” Rose said. “My - mother used to make something like that, when I was younger. But I didn’t know if it would be too hot for a flu.”
“It’s just right.”
Winry drank the tea, watched Rose standing by the bed: the tea was, in fact, slightly too hot, but she didn’t mind. Her throat felt cleaner, clearer: she could feel the slight burn as it slipped down, and almost relished it compared to the dull mucus of before. She finished it fast and caught a fragment of Rose’s cautious smile in her own.
“You look a lot better than yesterday,” Rose said.
“I’m feeling better,” Winry said.
Which was true. There was just Granny to worry about, who wasn’t ill by definition but then had looked crumpled, almost dazed when she’d seen her. Like she was old instead of just wrinkled, and Winry was too exhausted all day to even get up let alone see her.
It didn’t seem fair that people could weaken like that. It was the flu, for heaven’s sake. It shouldn’t -
Winry chased the end of that sentence away, because Pinako was sinewy as old boots and would outlast Armageddon; all the things she’d always believed had to be true. She shouldn’t, just now, be swallowing to prepare for such a silly question. Her throat was raw and painful; she could name more reasons for that than just being unwell.
"You're still fine?" she said, mostly for something or anything to say.
"Mmm," Rose said. "As long as we don't have any customers turning up..."
A sudden, vivid image lit Winry's mind: Pinako, dying, while they made small talk for lack of anything else to say, and Rose had been here two months and woke up screaming sometimes and Winry might lose Granny, can't lose Granny. She felt five years old again; or the age she was at when her parents died.
Rose was waiting for some kind of answer: she opened her mouth to speak, and Winry shivered, held the mug closer. She looked a little worried, and there was something so tender about her expression and her barely parted lips that Winry felt almost comforted by that, as if the answer had to be good.
She swallowed and felt the cartilage in her throat squeeze into her. Interrupted. “Is Granny all right?”
“Mrs Rockbell?” Rose said, bright-voiced, the honorific she’d never lost sweet and ridiculous to Winry’s ear. “She’s practically out of bed, to be honest - I just don’t want her to overstretch herself or something, or infect people…”
“You’re just imprisoning her, then?”
“Winry! That’s disgraceful!”
The sternness in Rose’s face, the teasing in Winry’s voice were both mostly shammed, because Winry was not-that-conscious and floating on a great bubble of relief, not really thinking, and the expression in Rose’s eyes and body and hands was quite different, was tilted slowly and irrevocably toward the other girl. Neither of them were too steady with reality, for the moment, balancing out on some weird idea of domesticity as if they know each other much better than they do.
Amusement bubbled through Winry’s nose, and then she began to croak out laughter, embarassed, giddy, delighted at the world returning to its appointed place and Granny all right. The tea too hot and the sheets tangled over her and her pulse going faster and faster underneath the slime. The artifice melting from Rose’s face and the crooked, concerned smile she wore, the touch of her hand on Winry’s shoulder.
Yes, it made a difference to her; it was as if Winry herself had been opened wide for all to see, and her chest hurt but she didn’t. It wasn’t so bad - not so bad at all. She could use being looked after.
The complete incomprehension on Rose’s face slowly became a smile, and then a stifled giggle, which faded out when she heard Winry wheezing into the sheets.
“We’re behaving like children…” Rose muttered, blushing, and then smiled.
“Ah, well,” Winry said, trying hard not to cough her whole body out onto the clean new linen, “It...looks nice when you laugh.”
She watched Rose flush and then the lines of her mouth dissolve again into another giggle - maybe she just didn’t know what to say, anyway, and it was awkward. Though what’s a teased remark like that between friends?
Friends already. Just or not quite friends, of course, but - she did look nice. And Winry hadn’t meant anything by saying other than - it wasn’t that kind of joke -
Well, the girl shouldn’t be so pretty if Winry wasn’t going to get confused.
Rose swayed and laughed some more and patted down the sheets in an attempt to restore order; then, quite inevitably, she collapsed across Winry, still laughing, and didn’t bother to get up, happy where she was. So very close, and Granny was fine, and the sprawl of giggling, heavy girl across Winry was awkward, uncomfortable and...nice. In a weird way.
It wasn’t that much new to Winry because she’d spent her whole life crying easily, laughing easily, and getting riled up just as quick, but they felt as if they were closer than really Winry should be comfortable with, and Winry’s own troubles weren’t too often unloaded on other people because she was quite prepared to carry and treasure theirs, whole-heartedly; and that was how it felt. Whole-hearted.
She didn’t spoil the moment by touching Rose or commenting or moving, just leant back and snorted out some more invalid laughter, quite exhausted and with a sore throat to beat the band, happy. Rose lay across her already, warm and wriggly, quite comfortable for now, and Winry’s laughter shook her body and the body against her, resting on her, so that they bounced a little, up-and-down, and anyone who came in would have laughed, hard, or gotten the wrong impression but Winry wasn’t about to go there.
Rose’s legs kicked up and down where they dangled over the edge, and Rose’s head nestled beside Winry’s hip on the pillow, and the hem of her dress tickled the little side part of Winry’s flank exposed to air with the scissor-kicks of her legs. There wasn’t another adult in the world, as far as Winry knew, who she’d be so free and easy with.
They were quiet for a bit, and then very embarassed. Because Winry’s laughter quite plainly showed her fright, and Rose had dropped her barriers for a little while, and they’d understood each other, filled all the loneliness they carried completely for a few moments.
It was too much to really talk about, and they didn’t; Rose got up, avoiding any further contact as carefully as she could, and then said something under her breath about having to get back to the baby and cook nourishing stew for everyone and was Winry sure she hadn’t strained something? Her eyes were bright and awkward; she was halfway out of the room before she spun round and thanked Winry, quickly, for what she couldn’t quite make out.
Winry found she’d knocked over the tea in all the excitement - or it might have been Rose - and then began to smile to herself, all over again, as she mopped it up. That had been so ridiculous; so lovely, so improbable, and both of them just fine with each other.
A long time afterwards, Winry was very grateful for this moment; it had been the one time before Granny had died, four years later, that she’d understood she loved her dearly.
Title: How Many Years?
Pairing: Winry/Rose
Rating: PG-13
It should have been him. That was her first guilty thought, when she awoke, and traced the lines of the body next to her, remembering, sharply, all the sensations she’d forgotten recalled along with their dead originator, the broad back, the sunburnt patch around the collarbone, the caked salt across the spine, honest sweat, a good son, the feel of him breathing, shifting the body, wide shoulders, the knotted muscle across them that she’d rub clean of tension, the strong stomach her hands curled round (punch this, c’mon, it’s rock-solid, I swear) the dark hair slicked to the nape of his neck…
…and now this curve of girlish honeyed flesh, the velvet skin and the red marks where clothing had been. The tough, raw hands marked with work, the hair spread across the pillow, unfastened, the flax darkened to bronze with effort and emotion, the way the neck crooked, here, from all-nighters, the place where the curl of her body let a few vertebrae show beneath her fingers, the sharp warm shoulderblades under the skin, the long legs entangled with hers, feel of the calf-muscle, quite unfamiliar except to the eyes because she’d watched her for hours and, oh, Winry was too beautiful, too strong, too close.
She kissed the back of her neck, let her fingers slide down and across the skin, skimming away the sweat, found ‘dear, dear, dearest’ on her tongue where it hardly belonged and the fear somewhere else now, years stripped away, Cain dead, her faraway girl in her arms and cried for love.