Chalk

A number of uncomfortable things conspire to wake Alfons that morning. The first is the sun, which shines brightly and determinedly into his face through a gap in the curtains. The second is his bandages, which have somehow managed to become undone during the night and which now sprawl across the mattress and over the floor like an especially crazy Italian pasta. They have also managed to form an enormous convoluted knot, which sticks into the middle of his spine with a sick sort of enthusiasm. The third uncomfortable thing is the sudden lurching realisation that despite all his protests, he did in fact end up spending the night at Miss Rockbell's house- he blushes bright red even as he lies there.

And the fourth, and probably conclusive, uncomfortable thing is the loud screeching noise which reverberates through the house and provokes the bones in his skull to grind painfully against each other.

He sits up, drags his palm swiftly down his face, gathers the tangled loops of bandages under one arm, hauls himself out of bed and makes his wincing way to the bathroom.

He catches sight of his reflection whilst he is washing his hands, and for a full minute he stares blankly at himself in shock. He has not changed his clothes since he got shot, and it shows: they are crumpled beyond belief, and even though he knows they were washed at the hospital he can still see faint brown patches of faded bloodstains on his shirt. His hair is greasy and hangs raggedly across half his face, and his one visible eye is shadowed and grey.

However, it is not this that makes him wonder just how profound an effect it is possible for a tiny bullet to have on a body. It is the strange pallor to his skin, the washed-out paleness he sees in his whole body as he stands shrinking beneath the bright yellow light.

Even when compared to the pale tiles of the bathroom, he looks colourless.

In the end he turns his back on the mirror, feeling oddly unsettled by his own appearance, and concentrates his attention on the bandages, which by now are trailing down over his legs and onto the floor. Unbuttoning his shirt, he pulls the wrapping off and unravels them completely- allowing him to see, for the first time, the rough red surfaces of his partially healed wound- and then does his best to tie them up again from scratch.

The end result, if not professional, at least allows him to move freely, and does not fall down when he lifts his arms away. He is still, however, nowhere near presentable.

He wonders whether it would be worse to go downstairs in a bloodstained shirt, or to go downstairs in no shirt at all.

He opts for the blood. His fingers work stiffly on the buttons as he descends the stairs to be greeted by the grating noise, which starts up with renewed volume as soon as he reaches ground level.

It is almost like twisting metal, he thinks, or an especially noisy drill.

He knocks on the door behind which it seems to be originating, and almost immediately the noise dies away.

"Yes?"

He pushes the door open and sees her - Winry; I'm supposed to call her Winry, aren't I? – sitting on the other side of the room. She turns as he enters, and looks over her shoulder at him.

His mouth drops open. He can't help it.

She is seated behind a workbench, on which he can see a large heavy-looking machine, a toolbox and a strange mechanical object that he can't see very well. She is holding a number of wires in one hand, and pushing a pair of goggles up her face with the other as she swivels around to face him.

This alone would be strange enough.

But the clothes she is wearing: loose, pale lilac trousers with an absurd amount of pockets, a long piece of cloth serving as a headscarf, and-

Alfons does not know where to look. He has never seen a girl's navel before, and all of a sudden there is one right in front of him, on full, cheerful display. Back in Munich, the one small piece of his brain that is still functioning tells him, they would be shocked.

He wonders whether there is a part of himself that is shocked.

"Ah!" Winry's face opens up into a smile. "Good morning!"

"G- Good morning," he manages, staring determinedly at the floor.

Confused, she gets up and moves over to him. "Is something wrong?"

"No-!" He looks wildly around the room for a distraction; his gaze lands on the workbench. "What- er- what's that?"

She follows his gaze. "That? That's my livelihood. I'm testing out a new design for my client."

He stares at her.

"Come and see!" she says excitedly, pulling him over to the bench; he goes willingly, and looks.

"What…"

"It's a work in progress," she says, lifting the strange object in her hands, "but one I'm quite proud of."

"A… metal arm?"

She stares at him for twenty seconds or longer, and then a look of abject horror comes over her as she says, "You… don't have automail… where you come from?"

Bewildered, he shakes his head.

"It's… a metal prosthetic," she says matter-of-factly, visibly trying to shake off her shock. "It connects directly to the nervous system, and by amplifying the signals still sent to the severed nerves, it is able to move."

"Oh!" he says. "Edward had something similar, actually. An arm and a leg. It didn't look anything like this, though."

"What did it look like?" Winry asks out of a professional interest.

"Just… different. It had a coating in some strange material designed to look like skin, but on the inside it was basic. Not much mobility, he told me. Nothing like as complex as this."

Winry beams. Encouraged, she continues, placing the limb back on the bench and angling the lamp onto it. "The earliest models had a very simple structure, really: only one plate here, so that the elbow could only bend to a right angle, at a stretch. Not so much use. Over time we've been experimenting, and have come up with this design. There's a very flexible material here, and at least three smaller plates on the outside. Usually modern automail can achieve 90 percent of flesh-and-blood mobility. There are still some limitations, especially in the shoulder and the hand- achieving real opposable thumbs was a nightmare- but it's a vast improvement.

"This plate," she says, fetching it and slotting it into place, "goes here, and bolts on either side of the wrist. It's designed to be easy to remove, so usually repairs are done via this panel. These slats help get rid of excess heat, although generally it's quite efficient. There can be some problems with waterproofing this area- as my poor dog knows- and it's that I'm working on now.

"Mostly it's the alloy I'm proud of in this model. The composition varies from piece to piece- according to personal preference and the lifestyle of the client- but I've discovered a blend which I believe could form the base for most models. It's very versatile, and by altering the ratio of components just slightly, it can be adjusted to-"

She breaks off suddenly; he turns to look at her, surprised. "What is it?"

"You're listening."

"Yes."

"Really listening."

"Of course."

"Normally when I talk about automail to people not in the business, they get annoyed or just humour me."

"Really?"

"Well, yes. Why the surprise?"

"Um…" He looks away, embarrassed again. "It's just… that's so rude."

She stares at him. "Rude… Yes! Yes, it is rude!

"Did you ever think Ed was a rude person?" she asks after a pause.

"Not exactly," Alfons says hesitantly. "At least, I don't think he really meant to be. He was very distant- even cold- and he didn't care what he said to people, but I don't think he was trying to be insulting. He was just… distracted."

She gives a humourless smirk, the corner of her mouth tugging up. "He used to be one of my clients. In fact, I gave him another set of automail before he went back into your world. He's one of the rudest people I know, in that respect. He never ever thanked me."

Alfons frowns with disapproval. "It's all right," Winry says quickly. "I was used to it. Anyway, it doesn't matter now."

"Maybe," Alfons says doubtfully. "But…"

He falls silent for a long time, gazing at the automail deep in thought.

"But what?" Winry prompts.

"I just think that I'd be grateful to someone who'd made me able to walk again," Alfons tells the workbench in a small voice.

Winry gazes at him, wide-eyed, for a long time, and is unable to keep the blush off her face.

Author's notes: SURPRISE!!