Title: The Sky Cries Out In Thunder

Author: S J Smith

Rating: Teen

Summary: Alphonse and Edward wait outside the courthouse for Winry's sentencing.

Disclaimer: No, no, I'm just a fangirl.

Notes: Thanks to D. M. Evans for her edits. This idea has been kicking around in my head for a while, and I'd like to write more on it. There is a possibility that will happen. This was written for the Live Journal community, FMA_Fic_Contest, for the prompt of, 'use a line or stanza of poetry in your story'. I chose a poem from Terry Moore's comic book, Strangers in Paradise; the poem being, "Something I Can't Hear". The line I used was, And still the storm approaches./And there's nothing I can do.

I watch while Brother paces, his shoulders tight, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants. He reminds me of an animal in a cage, walking back and forth, staring holes in the building above us: a court house, one he got himself ejected from, and I couldn't let him leave the court room alone. A part of me thinks Mustang ought to be here, too, but I don't follow up on that thought. I don't want to think of him right now, and what he said on the witness stand.

Brother grumbles under his breath, pausing a couple of arms-lengths away from me. "How much longer?"

I can't answer him. I don't know. I don't have any comfort to offer.

The wind tugs at the scarf around my neck, and I pull it tighter, tucking it into my jacket. The day is brisk, chilly, with grey clouds gathering overhead. Perfect for today, I think, not missing the irony even in my mental voice. Not very far off, I hear thunder, and I can feel the moisture in the air. Soon, the storm would be here, and I wonder if they'll at least let us go back into the court house to get out of the weather, or if the decision will be made before the rain comes.

"You should've stayed in there," Brother says, and I realize he's turned to me instead of the building.

I shrug and pull my jacket tighter over my shoulders and back. I know if I shiver, he'll see it, and try to send me back inside. I don't want to leave him, not now. Definitely not now.

Brother's eyes narrow. "Are you cold?"

"No more than you," I say.

The wind funnels down through the tall buildings, the cold air whipping around us. It tosses Brother's hair, making it a rat's nest. His mouth tightens, then, hearing, he spins back toward the building.

Shouts come from the top of the stairs, a knot of reporters with their microphones. Cameras flash like lightning. Military police guard their prisoner, keeping everyone back. Brother starts up the stairs and I follow right behind, ready to hold him back, ready to provide support.

I see her, unbowed, eyes glowing like an alchemy transmutation; hair pale as a morning sun. Manacles bind her tiny wrists, weighing down her healing hands.

"Why did you do it, Miss Rockbell?" someone shouts, and I recognize the reporter from the Central City Times. He's pushed his way almost through the police barricade, shoving the microphone in Winry's face.

I can't stop what happens; Brother grabbing the reporter's shoulder, dragging him away. The man stumbles on the slick marble steps and he falls down on one knee, screaming as the bone hits marble with a horrible crack.

Thunder booms overhead, nearly drowning out the man's cries. I snatch Brother's arms, holding him tight as he swears, nearly pulling me off my feet in his determination to reach Winry. "Ed, no!" she shouts, or I think she does, it's hard to hear over the rising wind. "Ed!"

He almost breaks free from me, but a policeman hauls back his club and the butt strikes Brother, knocking him back into my chest. His weight nearly staggers me but I hold on, trying to keep him steady. Winry meets my eyes, her own pleading, a request I cannot refuse. I grip Brother tight, even as he tries to regain his footing. "No, Ed," I say, "don't make it worse!"

"Listen to him, Elric. Or we'll throw you into jail, too!" The club waves in Brother's face then vanishes as the military police push past us, down the stairs and to a waiting panel truck. Winry climbs the steps into it, hesitating for a second, long enough for us to both see her before a guard shoves her inside, and the door slams shut.

Brother jerks away from me, following Winry halfway down the steps, and still the storm approaches, and there's nothing I can do. I put my hands on the reporter's knee, using alkahestry to mend the joint – badly bruised, wrenched, but not broken. The panel truck pulls away from the curb, and Brother stares after it, his face dark as the clouds overhead.

The Times reporter waved his microphone past my shoulder. "Mr. Elric! I need your commentary! What do you think about your ex-wife's guilty verdict?"

He turns to the reporter, growling loud enough to be mistaken for thunder. I step between them, recognizing the danger of that storm. "No comment," I say for both of us, and repeat it as I stand, grabbing Brother's arm and pulling him with me down the stairs.

Lightning explodes with a roar of thunder, and I shove Brother into our waiting car as the rain starts to fall in a sheet of water. Brother stares through the driver's skull as I glance around, seeing blue uniforms – military uniforms, Mustang; Hawkeye, at the top of the stairs. I say, "Take us to the jail." If we're lucky, we'll see Winry before they lock her up.

I hope, for her sake, for Brother's, we're lucky.

End