Chapter Text
Anywhere you go on Amestrian soil, you’ll hear about her: Winry Rockbell, The People’s Mechanic.
She’s said to be more skilled with a wrench than a surgeon with a scalple. There’s stories about how her smile can light up a room that smells of nothing but antiseptic and dread. Nobody’s ever seen her without a smudge of grease across the bridge of her nose and she’s got way more piercings than military regulation allows; these two you know from grainy newspaper photographs.
The rest is gossip, but truer gossip has never been spread. The People’s Mechanic never turns down a client, even those with nothing to give back. She uses her research funds—every last cenz, some say—to outfit those in need of automail, no questions asked.
Your sister-in-law told you she’d heard from a friend who’s cousin frequented Rush Valley that Winry Rockbell delivered a baby once, on top of a mountain, during a flood (which is a little more biblical than you think she meant, but it’s far too cool a rumour to discount completely).
Here’s what you’ll learn first-hand when you meet her: she never takes money for repairs, only a warm meal and a bed for the night, and her eyes hold more mischief and compassion than the flat newspaper portraits could ever hope to convey.
You’ll wonder why the military hired a fifteen-year-old engineer, but you won’t look a gift horse in the mouth for long.
Because Winry Rockbell is the best damn thing that’s happened to this country in decades.
One foot after the next sinking to the mid-shin in snow, Winry had a realization: she and snowdrifts were not friends, and likely never would be.
Especially not this blindingly white storm. Not halfway up to Fort Briggs in the middle of winter.
She was bundled three layers deep, but despite that, she was getting shivery; the hike was longer and harsher than she’d anticipated, once the wind kicked up. Even the outermost coat, the one with the furred hood Ms. Riza had insisted she take, had lost approximately a quarter of its potential for warmth, now that it was damp.
At least her hands had found cozy homes in her armpits.
Her scarf slipped below her chin and she paused to fix it. Just one inhale and the frozen air all but singed her nose, throat, and lungs, worse on the way in. She repressed a cough and squinted at the horizon.
The sky was a blue smear. Against it, Fort Briggs was a blocky black and gray smudge. Still a ways off.
A fresh slap of wind hit her with a renewed vigor, the snowflakes that hit her face like sharp pins. Retreating into her thick scarf, Winry thought she knew what turtles felt like when they hid in the safety of their shells.
“It’s worth it,” she promised herself at a murmur. “It’s worth it.”
And learning northern automail techniques was worth it. After this, she’d be so much better equipped to work with those people from this region, and travelers, and every person who’d benefit from lighter automail; the young, the elderly, pregnant people, those with multiple prosthetics, and the list went on. If she was wiley enough, she might be able to use similar techniques to lighten the weight of her automail by another ten percent, maybe more, if she could optimize her calculations. Some mechanics were already adapting Neil Flint’s regulation systems for the southern heat, too; and that wasn’t even mentioning the things she didn’t even know to think of yet!
She squinted against the blindingly bright snow. That was all true, yes. But, why had this mission been scheduled for winter? Would waiting for spring really have been that bad? Her winters were usually spent in Rush Valley, and they were some of her most productive months out of the year. It had been her CO who’d had other plans.
A few weeks ago, she’d visited Central, a work and social visit all in one, as she was staying with the Hughes family. Reporting in with Mr. Mustang was a given.
He’d taken her reports—all two dozen—but had barely skimmed the neatly written notes and carefully copied blueprints before he looked up at her and said, “Do you know anything about cold climate automail?”
“No, sir.”
“How’d you like to learn?” He set the reports down and reclined in his cushy chair, fingers laced over his chest. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a sitting room. Somehow, he made the pose look natural in an office, too.
Winry hadn’t even questioned it, though perhaps she should have, at the time. Mr. Mustang wasn’t known for no-strings attached goodwill. “Oh my god, I’d love to! But from who? The only specialists—”
“Are employed at Fort Briggs, yes, I know. Actually, Neil Flint has invited you to do an ‘internship’.”
“Neil Flint?” Winry yelped, loud enough to draw looks from the entire team. She heard a stifled gasp from Fuery, probably the only other person in the entire base who understood the weight that name carried. “You mean the Neil Flint?”
“Certainly a Neil Flint.”
“Don’t beat around the bush,” Winry demanded hotly. “Are you talking about the guy who completely reinvented automail temperature regulation systems by synthesizing insulated metal plated alloys to improve specific conductivity or not?”
“Ah, yes. Insulators and alloys. That’s the one,” Mr. Mustang replied, infuriatingly lackadaisical.
“Oh my god,” Winry said again, with feeling. “He wants me?”
“I take it you’d like to accept the offer?”
“Of course!”
“Excellent. Then you’ll be expected at Fort Briggs in three week’s time.”
That was the news that had dampened Winry’s quickly rising mode, and the flurry to get at her notebook and start a packing list stalled out. “But… it’s January?”
The Colonel raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”
“It’s the middle of winter.”
“Then you’d better pack warm.”
“I’m expected back in Rush Valley.”
“Make a few calls.” He’d given her a smug little smile. “And learn a lot, Miss Rockbell.”
Infuriating Colonel.
She adjusted the straps of her kit, resettling its weight across her back, and dug her right foot out of the snow only to falter and return it to the dent she’d just wrenched it from. Off to the north-east, there was something red in the otherwise muted gray-white landscape. A gust of wind and generous scattering of snow obscured her vision for a moment, but she stayed, shading her eyes, until it settled.
Yes, there: a red bundle, low to the ground. It couldn’t be a plant, not that vivid, not in the dead of winter. Was it an animal, bloodied and wounded? Maybe a bear? She’d read that there were a lot of bears in these mountains. Her heart leapt into her throat.
She swung her course wide. Off the marked path, the snow was even harder to traverse.
Drawing close, she realized the figure was too small to be a bear; that was a relief. She wouldn’t have known what to do with a wounded bear, honestly. Now, a wild dog or fox or something, that, she could probably figure out. She’d operated on Den with Granny. It couldn’t be that different.
Anxiously, she broke into an awkward, high-knees run. By the time she came to the figure, her scarf had slipped down and her breath was billowing in short white clouds from her chapped lips, until they caught on a small gasp.
“Oh my god.”
Not a bear, not a wild dog, but a person , was laying face-down in a red winter coat, ragged and dirty—and she’d seen enough dried bloodstains to recognize what was glueing the coat to their back. Judging from the tracks, they’d been working their way along more crawl than walk, before collapsing.
They let out a ragged, shaking cough, and struggled to push themselves up, but their arms were unsteady. Winry dropped to her knees to help, hooking her arms around their shoulder and found they were snow soaked and freezing. She wracked her gaze down their front—black clothes made it hard to see the blood, but it was there alright, on their stomach, on the snow beneath them.
“W—Win,” they rasped weakly. Relief and fear played in equal parts over their face, which Winry took in in short order: pale and near bloodless, to the point of being an unsetting mottling of blue and green, with golden-brown eyes, sharp chin, blonde hair, matted with snow and dirt but not blood—no head injury then, thank god.
“What happened?” Winry demanded.
“S...st—stabbed,” they gasped.
“Perforated?” Must be; she’d seen their back.
Their eyes flickered, their mouth twisting as they inclined their head: a yes.
“Any first aid?”
“I, I did,” they coughed. “Sealed it.”
She settled them back and tugged at their clothing to get an idea of the wound. It was nasty, bright and bleeding sluggishly, but at least there’d been a stopgap. As they’d said, it had been sealed with—Winry didn’t know what. Not stitches, that was obvious.
“With alchemy,” they said.
“Oh, you goddamn maddening alchemists,” Winry hissed.
The stranger made a sound that might have been a laugh. Winry could feel her blood buzzing just below the surface of her wrists. It might have been adrenaline.
Mustang had done this before—used his flames to cauterize a wound. It’d scarred, and scarred bad, it made things complicated; sure, he hadn't bled out, but the risk of infection had more than doubled. Without proper treatment, things would get ugly.
They were within walking distance to the outer rim, where the guards were expecting her.
She just had to get them through the last stretch.
Okay. She could do that.
“I’m going to carry you to Fort Briggs, and we’re going to get you into surgery to patch up whatever goddamn mess you’ve made for me.” She shrugged off her automail kit and wrapped the stranger’s wound with her scarf to keep it stable until they got to an operating table. Because they’d alchemized their wound but hadn’t thought to alchemize a bandage.
Stupid, crazy alchemists. They all had death wishes.
“You’re going to stay awake. You’re gonna keep talking to me. You hear me?”
She glanced up to their face, trying to confirm, and found them looking at her ear.
“I said—”
“Y, your… earrings,” they mustered.
Winry felt a flushing hot burst of frustration. “I’m trying to save your life here!” She yanked on her kit’s straps and pulled it back on, lower to accommodate the new load. “Grit your teeth. I’m picking you up.”
“Wh—” they started, but the rest was a strangled vocalization of pain as Winry hefted them across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. They didn’t resist, clearly knowing what was good for them. Good god, they were heavy. Muscle? Or did they have automail?
A fresh wave of panic hit Winry’s gut. They were freezing cold and soaking wet; she couldn’t make out whether anything beneath the fabric was flesh or metal. It all felt the same.
To understate: that was worrying.
Her high steps jostled her passenger, but after the first few feet, they stopped gasping with each move; she was reassured they were alive only by the huffs of unsteady breath against her neck.
“Hey,” she said. “Talk to me. Details.”
There was a long stretch of silence before they responded.
“Fell,” they said. “In… into a mineshaft.”
“Mineshaft,” Winry repeated at a mutter. “Minesh—? Oh. Baschool.” She’d studied the maps. They’d crawled here all the way from Baschool?
An exhale. “Yeah.”
“Fell,” she repeated next, unabashedly skeptical.
She felt their wince. “More l-like… exploded.”
“What the— exploded?!”
“Fuckin’... Kimblee.” The words were sour, and presented as though they constituted a complete explanation.
She was quiet, aside from her panting as the march continued, drawing them ever nearer to the fort. Kimblee—she knew that name. She’d studied more enough about the Ishvalan War to recognize it. “Kimblee is locked up.”
“I wish.”
Well, she couldn’t focus on that worrying sentiment. “Okay, fine. Your injury. Give me more details on that.”
“Right,” they coughed, much louder than they’d been talking, and Winry winced but didn’t let her pace slow. Speaking seemed to take them great effort, but they worked through the next few sentences like one might haul themselves over a wall. “S—sorry. It was metal. Beam. Pulled it o, out. I jury-rigged... a working system. Stopped the bleeding. For a while.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
They didn’t reply. Their next inhale was ragged.
“Hey! I need to know! What organs—”
Another catching breath. They’d passed out abruptly, head lolling at an awkward angle against her shoulder.
She clenched her teeth and picked up the pace.
The stranger’s surgery was an intense, messy affair which Winry was privy to only because she demanded that she be involved. And it was a good thing she had, too; they’d had to detach not one, but two automail limbs in an attempt to help him regulate his own body temperature.
Neil, after a rushed introduction, had taken over the leg and tasked Winry with the arm. Brigg’s resident doctor, Pat (also a rushed introduction; Winry hadn’t even caught her last name), looked grim behind her mask when she announced they’d have to open the wound back up to stitch things properly.
With only the three of them, it was a long and arduous task. When Winry and Neil started getting underfoot, Pat shouted them out of the room, red faced and stressed; Neil retreated sheepishly, but Winry stayed until Pat deflated and told her, in no uncertain terms, that she looked dead on her feet and the last portion of the surgery would be better off without her.
It was late by the time Winry had washed up and collected her haphazardly discarded belongings. She’d just realized she had no idea where she’d be sleeping when Neil pressed a hot coffee into her scrubbed raw hands.
“Here. This’ll steady you.
She shot him a grateful smile and took a sip; it was hot and sweet, more cream than coffee. But sugar was just as welcome as caffeine. “Thanks.”
Neil slurped his noisily. He’d found a clean bandanna since she’d last seen him; this one was black and red. “This wasn’t exactly how I expected to quiz you on port handling, you know.”
“You were going to quiz me?”
Neil shrugged. “Never had an intern before. I almost don’t know what to do with you.”
“I don’t think interns take quizzes.” Winry laughed.
Neil narrowed his eyes, playful. “You’re just trying to get out of it, aren’t you?”
“You caught me.” Winry rolled her eyes. Then, realizing that this was Neil Flint, automail rockstar, who had offered to mentor her for three months apropos of nothing, she scrambled to course correct. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I’ll take any quizzes you want me to!”
But Neil was grinning. “Nah, no quizzes. It’s an honor to teach you ‘bout my little corner of the automail world, Miss Mechanic of the People.”
“Oh, please,” Winry said, face flushed with embarassment. She valiantly resisted the urge to hide behind her coffee. “I don’t really like that title.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just… so much,” Winry scrunched her nose. “I don’t help people for fame, you know?”
Neil considered her thoughtfully, arms crossed and hip propped against the counter. “No, you do it ‘cause it’s the right thing,” he said, decisive. “And a good thing you do, too. Otherwise, Red would be wolverine meat right now.”
The stranger—who they’d taken to calling Red, after the coat, for lack of anything else—was separated from them by a tightly sealed door. Winry couldn’t prevent her gaze from skittering over as Neil talked; she knew why Pat had kicked her out, respected it, even, but it still rankled. Red was her patient, despite following absolutely none of the conventional methods.
Neil caught her looking and gestured over with his mug. “So, the kid. You really just found him out in the snow? Laying there?”
“Crawling, actually. Or… trying to.”
“Damn,” Neil drained the dredges of his coffee and replaced the mug with a chewed cigarette. (“Can’t smoke in here,” he’d told Winry, forlorn, when he squeezed it out of the pack. “Pat’s tyrannical laws.”)
She’d already recounted Red’s story for both of them, during the tense automail removal. Neil had sent it up the chain of command when Pat banished him from the operating room, and apparently, Briggs worked fast; an investigation team had already reported back that Baschool and its mines were intact, no trace of an explosion, a fight, or even collapse due to disrepair. Neil told her that now.
“So where did he crawl from?” Winry muttered.
“The storm covered up the trail, so they can’t track anything,” Neil shrugged. “Maybe he was just too proud to say he lost a fight with a grizzley.”
“You think a bear did that to him?” Winry couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her tone.
“You’ve never met a Briggs bear.”
“And I don’t want to!” Winry huffed. “He said he was stabbed. That’s not a word you use for a wild animal.”
“A bar fight, then.”
“A bar where?” Nevermind the fact that Red didn’t look old enough to set foot in a bar, let alone fight a drunkard. “That doesn’t add up with what he said about falling. And what about the Kimblee… thing?”
“Nobody can make heads or tails of that. The Crimson Alchemist is rotting in his Central cell as we speak.” Neil leaned in like they were conspiring. “Major Armstrong called personally.”
Okay, Winry had already known that Red’s story was missing a few pieces but this was just confusing. She shook her head.
Neil leaned back. “Don’t worry about it too much. We’ll get a straight story out of him when he’s up and about. For now, let me show you to your room.”
The walk was surprisingly short; a few turns down wide white-paint-and-metal halls, her quarters awaited. Neil pointed out his room, and Pat’s, all in the same hallway. She could knock if she ever needed them off the clock, Neil said.
“And if we’re not in, try the break room.” That’s where they’d had coffee. “Everything else, I’ll show you on the official tour tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mr. Flint.”
“Mr. Flint? Oh, now that makes me feel old.” He pulled a disgruntled face, unlit cigarette wobbling. “Just use my first name.”
“Got it.” The exhaustion of the day hit her all at once, heavy across her shoulders; it was uncomfortably reminiscent of Red’s dead weight and reminded her of the ache in her back and legs. “Thanks again, Neil. Have a good night.”
“You too, Winry.” Neil began to turn but paused. “Hey, you know what they say about strays?”
“...what?”
“Don’t get too attached,” Neil laughed, then ducked off with a wave.
Winry huffed. Don’t get too attached. Like she hadn’t been loving and letting go of patients—of people— her whole life.
She’d left her automail kit in the workroom, so she only had her personal bag when she shouldered her way into her new room.
There wasn’t much to unpack; some clothing, the essential toiletries, and a handful of books and notebooks. It was what she’d packed for Central, when that’s all she’d thought the trip would be. Her winter coat and scarf had been gifts from Miss Riza and the Hughes family.
After folding her clothes into a drawer, she stacked her books on the bedside table, scooted her two pairs of shoes into a line by the door, and then settled in to get some sleep.
She wasn’t able to rest for long; after a few hours, she found herself awake in the dark, thinking about Red. Surely, he’d be out of the precarious post-surgery state by now? Maybe she should check, just to ensure nothing unexpected had happened…
It didn’t take more than that to convince herself. She shoved her feet into her sandals in the dark and traced her way back to the infirmary in her pajamas, where Pat let her in without any questions.
Pat looked like she hadn’t even tried to rest. Her coat was wrinkled and her glasses had been pushed to the top of her head; her short blonde hair was sticking out on the left, like she’d run a hand through it one too many times.
Winry glanced to the door to the operating room, ajar and dark, before realizing Red had been moved to the infirmary bed. The curtains were drawn around him. “How is he?”
“He’s got an infection,” Pat said curtly. “The fever’s only going up, but we can’t give him the fever reducer without risking a clot, so we’re monitoring him over night.”
Winry worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Mind if I stay?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Behind the privacy curtains, Red was more lump than person, sedated and feverish. He’d been stripped of two limbs and liberated of his bloody clothing, and was now swaddled in only a thin gown and scratchy blankets. He was sweating through all of them, even the cold compress on his forehead, a poor attempt at temperature regulation. It was the same temperature as his fevered skin when she peeled it off.
He’d alchemized his own impalement wound. Of course he was running a fever right after surgery. God, he hadn’t even disinfected it, and who knew what he’d been stabbed with? It was a nightmare just imagining what kind of bacteria he’d sealed inside the wound when he jury-rigged it. Really, Red was lucky to just have an infection and fever. Winry restrained a frustrated sigh as she returned with a fresh rag and a bowl of ice and water to fix a new compress.
“Winry,” he rasped.
She jumped, sloshing icy water over her hand. “Shit!”
Red was just barely awake, face flushed and eyes too shiny, little splashes of white and gold and black receding into his face. They flickered, trying to focus on her. “R’you okay?”
“Fine, sorry.” She wiped her hands on her front.
“Wh’rs Al?”
She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, uncertain of what he was asking. He was burning and damp, a stark contrast to the soaking, bone-chilling condition she’d found him in. “Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”
“But…”
“It’s fine, I promise. Everything is fine.” When that still didn’t do the trick, she added, “We can talk in the morning.”
And, the way that delirious patients rarely did, he caved, expelling his tension and confusion in a single exhale that relaxed his entire body into the mattress. He stirred when she laid the new cold compress across his forehead and eyes, but didn’t wake.
Strays, huh.
She dragged a chair over and wrapped herself in a spare blanket to stave off the chill that seemed to permeate Briggs before taking a moment to study her patient more closely than before.
Red was young, probably around her age, his cheeks still round with unshed baby fat, but battered despite his youth. It wasn’t just the grievous wound they’d stitched. He was littered with scars and scrapes, some old and pale, some new and bright. Beneath the gown, he was more yellowing bruises than healthy flesh. And that wasn’t even touching on the fact he was missing two pretty important limbs.
(Not that any limb was un important; that was a core tenant for automail mechanics like herself. Still, she entertained herself for a while, considering what body part might be least essential. The appendix, maybe? She couldn’t find an argument for anything else, but that was hardly a limb.)
But it begged the question: what happened in his life, that he needed not just one, but two pieces of automail?
And forget that, what could’ve hurt him so badly that Briggs was the best place to crawl for help?
All together, Red was a list of unanswered questions in the approximate size and shape of a teenager, and on top of that, there was something that had been nagging at her since she first saw his face, pale in the snow, from the sweep of his jaw to the upturned curve of his nose: she just couldn’t shake the cobwebby feeling that she should know him.
Winry woke. For a moment, she was disoriented; shouldn’t she be at a desk, face-down amongst wires and bolt cutters? Instead, her head was pillowed on her arms on—a mattress? And the rest of her was folded like a paperclip into a stiff chair, like—
It came back to her. Red, the Briggs infirmary.
Sitting up jostled something at her elbow: Red’s fingers curling gently into her sleeve. She eased them off, then hesitated with his hand in hers. There was just something at the edge of her mind, like a sense of deja-vu not quite pulled into focus.
Winry shook her head. She wasn’t fully awake, that must be it.
She covered a wide yawn and stood, pulling her borrowed blanket more tightly around herself. A peek through the curtains showed that Pat was still at her desk, half-asleep but making a valiant effort at staying upright. Her desk lamp was the only light in the infirmary.
Red’s temperature was still high, and even his hand had been overwarm, so while she was up she fetched another new cold compress. When she returned, Red’s expression was twisting, sour. A bad dream?
She smoothed back his bangs and draped the new compress on. His eyes flew wide, his breath stuttering and panicky.
“Hey, hey, Red, it’s okay,” Winry said, dropping easily into her bedside manner. Her voice alone was like a soothing balm, and Red’s smile when he focused on her was genuine, though fuzzy, wobbly from the painkillers. Winry helplessly returned it. “You with me?”
“‘Ey, Win,” he rasped, reaching out. He didn’t get far before his face went creased and confused again. Uncertain, he looked at the empty spot on his right. “Y’took my arm.”
Winry made an effort to speak quietly, for Pat’s sake. “We had to detach it, but we’ll have it back on before you know it.”
“Where’s my arm?” His brow was furrowed with the concentration it took to unstick each word from the next. He struggled to prop himself on his one existing elbow and Winry angled his pillow so he could kinda-sorta sit up.
“All your automail is in the workshop right now. Just through that door.”
Red’s expression shifted in surprise. “M’leg too?”
“Yup.”
“Goddamn,” he said fuzzily, patting at his stump. “Ow.”
Winry wrestled a laugh down to a giggle. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Why’sat?”
“Huh?”
“Take’m off?”
“Oh. Even cold climate models are metal. They can’t always protect against frostbite, not in conditions like that storm you were in. You’ve also lost a lot of blood. Without proper circulation, the risks of leaving them on were too high.”
“Huh,” Red said, still kneading at his port where flesh became metal through the blanket. “But it w’s so light. I was so fast.”
“How much did your old automail weigh?”
Red peered at her unsteadily, listing to the right. “You tell me.”
She frowned, considering Red’s size and the age of his ports, when he must’ve gotten his original models, and the fact that making automail lighter than what they could do with cold climate models was still an experimental area. “Twenty-five or thirty pounds on the arm. Sixty on the leg? No, it’s only to the mid-thigh. Maybe fifty.”
“Dunno,” Red said.
Winry wasn’t sure why she’d expected any kind of confirmation or correction. “Well, it’s good your new ones are lighter. Using something more than twice the weight of your real limbs can cause a lot of problems, especially while you’re growing.”
“You calling me short?” Red asked, like he couldn’t believe it.
“No, I’m just saying... you’re… fifteen?”
Red snorted. “Well, whatev’r. Heavier shit punches harder. But even with the new stuff, when you fall, y’fall hard.” He said this like it was sage wisdom, complete with a nod and all. When Winry’s non-response disappointed him, he urged, “Ask me how I know, Win.”
“Um, how do you know?”
“Aside from Baschool…” Red started in on a list of names of people and places, expecting Winry to keep up.
She didn’t, just furrowed her brows until his eyes landed on her.
“What? Y’should be glad I didn’t break y’r precious arm this time.”
Had he just threatened her with bodily harm? “Please don’t break anything, Red.”
“I don’t try to! Things just break in my vicinity. A lot.”
“Like… mineshafts.”
“Right.”
“Why didn’t you go to town for help? It’s a lot closer to Baschool than the fort. If I hadn’t come along, you’d have never even reached the gate.”
“D’n wanna go t’the Gate...”
“Then what?”
“What?”
“The town was closer, Red.”
He blinked at her. “But you were here.”
“That was pure luck!”
“Mmm… nah. Strategy.”
“Strategy?” Winry repeated, patience wearing thin enough to snap. “Strategy my ass! You wouldn’t know strategy if it hit you upside the head! How many hours were you out in the storm like that, anyway? You’re lucky we only had to detach your automail! You could’ve lost a whole lot more to frostbite and contamination!”
“What’s a few fingers?” Red asked, laughing again. “Already down… five.” He held up his left hand and peered at it. “Five down, five t’go.” He trailed off with a distracted mumble, eyes narrow.
Winry groaned and twisted around to look at Pat, who’d been drawn over by the argument that Winry had failed to keep quiet, and was now standing at the gap in the curtains, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.
“What’d you give him?”
“The good stuff.”
Winry crossed her arms. “Must be pretty damn good.”
“You’re pretty,” Red said, rousing with an uneven grin. “And pretty damn good. Good at whatcha do. No, better’n that. Way better.”
“Say that again when you’re fully cognizant, and maybe I’ll believe you,” Winry huffed.
“I will,” Red said, rather pleased with himself. And then he passed out unceremoniously.
Pat snorted and shook a hand through her short hair, making it stick out even worse than before. “Let’s take his example and hit the hay.”
Winry frowned at Pat, then at Red’s slack face. “Doesn’t he need to be under observation?”
“Yeah, as for that…” Pat’s response was wry. “I think it’s time Neil took a shift.”