Archive of Our Own

From the looks of it, Winry is in for a very hectic work day. Three orders to fill, five maintenance appointments, all while managing a toddler and a baby and the assorted house chores. She might not even be able to find the time to sit down and eat something.

It’s times like this where she kind of wishes (rather guiltily) Ed hadn’t started teaching at the local campus. Even though his classes only take place twice a week, those absences are felt starkly. It’s much easier having a second pair of hands to help out around the house, especially with the recent rise in her workload.

But she is nothing if not resilient, and she’s always been good at managing several projects at once. Some people say they’re good at multitasking when they’re really not, but Winry actually is—the trick is to bring those tasks as close to each other as possible, so then you don’t have to divide your attention as much. That’s why her baby girl is currently taking a nap in the nearby tool chest (all the tools have been emptied out, it’s stuffed with pillows and blankets and other soft things) while her son is sitting on her lap.

Michael’s wide blue eyes observe silently as she measures out the steel framework. It isn’t the sort of quiet fascination with which she used to observe Granny’s work, isn’t the curiosity that drove her to peering into the workshop from the doorway when she was his age—this is more subdued, the intrigue of something new that he doesn’t quite understand. A part of her was hoping at least one of her children would have shown any hints of the same spark of passion she had at that age, the same wondrous attraction to the glory of automail. So far, though, no such luck.

A finger pokes at the stack of gears. “What are those, Mommy?”

As she opens her mouth to reply, the shop phone rings. Winry cringes internally, sending a frantic glance over at her one-year-old—

...who is still asleep.

Actually, she’s not sure why she’s surprised. Tina is such a deep sleeper—she’s Ed’s daughter, after all.

Another ring. Sighing, Winry scoops Michael off her lap and sets him down, then makes her way over to where the phone hangs off the wall. Even if a phone call can derail the precious state of concentration that is so vital to productivity, the chance of missing someone calling about an appointment or an emergency was too vital to risk not keeping one in the workshop. There’s a click as she pulls it off the rack, brings it up to her ear.

“Rockbell Automail and Prosthetic Limb Outfitters,” she chirps, all bright and cheery professionalism. “How can I be of service to you today?”

“Um.” A note of hesitation from the other end, followed by an uncertain pause. “I’m looking for either Mr. or Mrs. Elric?”

Ah, she understands the confusion. She had legally changed her surname after the marriage, but she had not done the same to her business. How could she? Rockbell Automail has been part of her life much longer than being married has—that same sign sitting outside the house greeted her every morning when she left for elementary school, welcomed her home when she came back at the end of the day. It was a constant as the years rolled by, as they all grew up and changed and things little by little shifted into a brand-new state of being. She may discard her maiden name, but she would always be a Rockbell at heart, and she would never discard that. So she kept the sign, kept the name, because some things never change (her conversation with Ed about it went something along the lines of “I’m not changing the sign, by the way” to which Ed stared and asked “Is there something wrong with the sign?” to which she rolled her eyes and that was that).

“This is Mrs. Elric.” Not a customer then. Actually—correct her if she’s wrong, but that sounds like...

“Then why...? Never mind.” Yup. It’s Dana Fergus, the new school secretary. Oh no. “Mrs. Elric, there’s been an... incident with your daughter.”

Winry pinches the bridge of her nose. At least it isn’t Nick this time. Her eldest son has developed a nasty proclivity towards arguing with his teachers, which has more often than not resulted in notes being sent home, phone calls, and parent-teacher meetings. While part of her is relieved that he hasn’t gotten himself in trouble again, another part of her wonders if this means that Bridget is going to start her own string of misdemeanors.

Deep breath, Winry. Deep breath.

She brings the handset back up to her ear. “What happened?” she asks, and tries to keep her tone as neutral as she can manage.

“Do you think you could come in?” asks the secretary, which is never a good sign.

Biting her lip, Winry glances over at her three-year-old, who is trying to climb up on the chair she was sitting on to examine her tools again (he can’t reach, and even then, there’s nothing overly dangerous there or too small to swallow, so intervention is not immediately necessary). She’ll need to call Ed, see if he can... actually, no. She’s closer, and Ed has a tendency to get rather combative in these situations. It’d be best of Bridget didn’t end up suspended because Ed said something that offended the teacher (which has happened a couple times with Nick, much to their eldest son’s chagrin).

In that case, she’ll need to call all her clients, move around the schedule, find someone to watch her younger children. ...either way, it’s going to be a pain.

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll be right there.”

When she hangs up, she finds Michael’s big blue eyes fixed on her, oddly pensive for a three-year-old. Apprehensive, almost. “Is Brother in trouble again?”

“No, sweetie.”

His eyes widen a little. “Is Sister in trouble?”

Good question. Knowing Bridget, she either got hurt or hurt someone else. It’s a literal coin toss. “...we’ll see.”

Something flinty coalesces in Michael’s eyes, and he scowls the way Ed does when he’s preparing for a fight. “Do I gotta beat someone up?”

“I think your big sister is more than capable of beating people up herself,” Winry sighs. “Do me a favor and go grab a coloring book for yourself, okay?”

She contacts all the clients she has booked for today to inform them that something has come up—there’s no guarantee she’ll be unavailable all day, but things will be moved around and there’s a small chance they might have to wait until tomorrow. Most are understanding, one or two are disgruntled, but overall no one is upset enough to start throwing a fit or threaten to drop her as their mechanic (it happened once, long story). Winry considers that a victory.

Next she attempts to contact Ed, mostly to inform him that she’s stepped out and that the kids are staying with the neighbors down the road until further notice. Unfortunately, it seems he’s in the middle of a lecture, because no one picks up at his office. She scribbles a hasty note that she tapes to the fridge and makes a mental note to talk to him about getting an assistant or something, in case this situation ever comes up again.

Then she has to physically move her kids to the neighbors’. Tina is fussy, making disgruntled noises all the while and constantly shifting in Winry’s arms, while Michael makes a game out of kicking stones as they pick their way down the path, incessantly tugging her attention towards perceived achievement with little shouts of “Mommy, Mommy, did you see that?”. By the time she finally knocks on the McFaddens’ door, she’s nearly at wit’s end.

Nelly McFadden opens the door with a look of mild surprise. She takes in Michael bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet, Tina’s fussy twitching, and then blinks calmly. “Hello, Winry. Anything I can do for you?”

“I’ve been called to the school.” She doesn’t say why. “Do you think you can watch Michael and Tina for a bit?”

“Of course.” Nelly smiles brightly, then sinks to her knees to address Michael. “Say, Mike, Georgie and Todd are playing cops and robbers out in the backyard. Do you wanna join them?”

“Don’t like bein’ called ‘Mike’,” Michael huffs, but it isn’t a “no”.

Winry gratefully hands Tina off to Nelly, kisses her son on the forehead, and then hurries off to the schoolhouse.

Every time she comes back here, she feels like a child again—like the little girl who went running after Ed and Al at the end of every weekday, huffing about whatever daily annoyance they had dared to offend her with. She can still hear the carefree laughter, her own exasperated shouts echoing off the hills. Most of that exasperation came from bottling up her boredom in the classroom, from feigning the façade of a perfect student (well, she usually slipped in math class, when she outright fell asleep, but otherwise). It was the main reason she never knew where the principal’s office was until after Nick was enrolled and started holding open debates with his teachers over his own contrary opinions.

Speaking of Nick—he should be in class, this time of day, but instead she finds him pacing restlessly outside the principal’s office. When she catches a glimpse of his face, she notices the scowl dictating his features and silently bemoans the fact that he’s inherited his father’s frown, as well as the propensity towards it.

The moment her eight-year-old spots her making her way down the hall, he immediately races over and comes to a skidding stop before her, an urgent light in his amber eyes.

“It’s not Bridget’s fault,” is the first thing he says, fiercely adamant.

...which means that Bridget is not the victim here.

It’s a good thing I didn’t call Ed, then, she thinks with a long exhale from her nose. There is some strange phenomenon that exists between fathers and daughters, and anything involving Bridget is more liable to send him into Proud Papa Mode than have him agreeably sit down and conduct a dialogue. Nick’s aggressively contrary nature, after all, didn’t crop up from the void.

She buries the exasperation blooming in her gut with a reassuring smile. Winry’s very good at reassuring smiles, see. “Alright. But I still need to go in there and sort this thing out.”

But Nick is not swayed, rather narrowing his eyes accusingly. “You don’t believe me.”

“I do believe you.” Even if Bridget was the perpetrator, Winry would at least like to believe it didn’t come out of nowhere. “How about you head back to class? Mr. Kimmel starts teaching history around this time, right? You love history.”

He doesn’t seem to hear her. “Mom, seriously. It’s not Bridget’s fault. The other boy, he—”

“I’ll handle it, Nick.”

“But Mom—”

“Nicholas.” Predictably, Nick winces a little, and she fixes him with a mildly stern look. “It’s sweet of you to worry about your sister, but this isn’t your responsibility. Now go grab your knapsack and go back to class.”

“But—”

“Now.”

That has him wilting petulantly, with a pout that is so much like Ed’s it is all she can do not to exasperatedly throw her arms in the air. “...fine.”

It’s not just the scowls he inherited from Ed—those sulky looks are exactly the same, just transplanted onto a younger face. Something in her softens a little, and she reaches out to ruffle his hair reassuringly. “Once school ends, head over to the McFaddens’, okay? Michael and Tina are already there, and I think they would appreciate having their big brother there.”

“...okay.” Reluctance dictates his motions as he strides passed her, and he continues to snatch glances over his shoulder as he goes.

Once he’s vanished around the corner, Winry turns to face the principal’s office door. As a child, she used to be terrified of that door and its theoretical existence and what hypothetically lay beyond it. Rumors of monsters and punishment quailed her into obedience, and it always baffled her that not everyone was the same way. Ed in particular would sometimes get sent here for picking fights with schoolyard bullies, usually in defense of his brother. He always returned Winry’s quivering over the boogeymen she believed to exist beyond the door with a flat look, as if to say it’s just a door, what are you so afraid of?.

And that’s exactly what it is. There is nothing particularly unnerving about the blank black lettering branded upon the brass plaque, or the little crosshatch patterns in the window that keeps you from seeing what’s going on inside. No, that is a fear reserved only for misbehaving children.

Which currently includes her daughter.

Sigh.

Dana Fergus is sitting at her desk, organizing files, when Winry finally works up the courage to push her way through the dreaded door. The sound of Winry’s entrance causes the secretary to glance up through mascara-laden lashes—Winry remembers when they were in grade school together, when Dana surreptitiously snuck her mother’s jewelry in her rucksack to show off. Winry had been flummoxed by how the other girls all fell over themselves to compliment the pearl strings and elegant broaches, and it was then that most of the girls in her class decided she was too boyish to hang out with anymore.

“Are you Mrs. Elric?” the secretary asks, half-bored and half-curious.

Like she doesn’t know who Winry is at all. Well—Dana did move to East City when Winry was fifteen and only just recently come back, or something like that (Winry tries not to listen to rumors, prefers to conduct her own judgement). The point is, it’s probably been a while, and Winry isn’t really the plucky teenager she used to be, so maybe a delay in recognition is to be expected. “That’s me.”

“Principal Johnson is will see you in his office.” The undertone of it’s about time you got here is veiled, but not as tactfully as it could be.

Still, Winry is nothing if not diplomatic—it’s a skill she’s had to learn and perfect when dealing with particularly difficult customers. So all she does is smile, thank Dana as politely as she can while still maintaining an undertone of I don’t have time for your bullshit, ma’am and then strides over to the inner sanctum of the principal’s office.

Her knock on the door is rewarded with a brisk “come in”. She opens the door, then, to find Principal Johnson sitting gloomily behind his desk (Winry remembers when he was vice-principal, with his sagging face and perpetual thundercloud-frown, which is exactly the same as now, just with more lines on his face and grey in his hair) with both hands clasped together on the tabletop. A set of cushioned chairs have been positioned across from the principal’s desk, one of which is occupied by Bridget, her sunshine blonde ponytail bright against the faded grey fabric and her head bowed in what can only be a guilty manner. Two more are occupied by a boy Bridget’s age, a little grubby-faced, brunet, a bright pink sticking plaster thrown over his crooked, purpling nose. Next to him is a stern-faced woman who is steadfastly pressing bandages to the boy’s nose, but does so while maintaining a particularly condemning glare on Bridget.

Kelsey Cullen, nee Humphrey. Winry remembers her from grade school very well. Kelsey was the ringleader of a pack of girls who took great delight in taunting Winry and her “masculine taste” after the jewelry incident. In particular, Winry remembers the time the girls ambushed her one autumn morning to pelt her with pinecones, and the next day Ed and Al slipped wads of mud into their backpacks. Kelsey cried because her notebook was ruined, blamed Winry, and Winry was then forced to apologize for the whole incident despite it not even being her fault. Immature as she was, Winry directed her frustration at the brothers and didn’t talk to them for a week. Kelsey was quite smug about it after, and after that taunted Winry about being so unfeminine she drove off her would-be boyfriends.

...not one of her favorite people, to say the least, is Kelsey Cullen.

“Mrs. Elric,” Principal Johnson drawls in that dry, dusty voice of his. They’re well familiar with each other by now, unfortunately. “Please have a seat.”

So she does. Closes the door behind her and claims the unoccupied seat next to her daughter. Kelsey’s condemning glare has transferred over to her, but Winry steadfastly ignores it in favor of observing the uncomfortable shift in Bridget’s shoulders. She can’t help but notice that Bridget keeps fidgeting with her left hand, which has been wrapped from knuckle to wrist in white bandages, faint patches of what appears to be dried blood blooming around the knuckles. Whether the blood is hers or someone else’s begs the question, but it’s clear what transpired.

Still, it never hurts to get more information. “So what, exactly, happened?”

Principal Johnson opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by Mrs. Cullen’s hissed, “Your daughter broke my son’s nose, is what happened.”

Her son—Roger Cullen, Winry remembers. She also remembers that Bridget had, in the past, complained about a Roger Cullen. It started with him putting flowers in her backpack and following her everywhere, Bridget said it was sweet at first, but she was starting to tire of it, starting to grow annoyed by his inability to leave her alone. Especially when she asked him repeatedly to stop, only for him to grow huffy at her refusing his generosity, which left Bridget frustrated and forced to apologize whenever an adult happened to come across the scene and mistake Bridget for the perpetrator. Winry and Ed had briefly considered talking to the teacher about it over the weekend.

And now this.

Hm...

“I gathered that,” Winry replies, as calmly as she can manage without turning frosty, “but I’m trying to determine why.”

“Maybe,” Kelsey returns, openly frosty, “because no one ever taught her that hitting people is unacceptable.”

Winry stifles the urge to leap to her feet and get in the woman’s face by curling her fists into the denim of her skirt. “What exactly are you implying?”

“Well it’s not as though she has the most feminine influences—”

“Shut up!” Bridget blurts. She whirls around to aim a particularly scathing glare at Mrs. Cullen. “My mom is plenty feminine!”

Snorting, Mrs. Cullen gestures with her free arm, as though to say you see what I mean?. Bridget winces and ducks her head and hunches her shoulders as though ashamed.

“Mrs. Elric.” Principal Johnson’s dry, dusty voice calls Winry’s attention back to his drooping face. “These sorts of actions demand consequences. We can’t have students going around and picking fights.”

“Be that as it may,” Winry replies, still calm, “I would still like to know what led up to the event.” She turns to her daughter, who has her gaze lowered to her feet. “Bridget, sweetie?”

There is a moment of hesitation, during which Bridget gnaws at her lip and seems to be debating whether or not telling her side of the story will even do her any good. Then she raises her eyes to Winry’s face, silent and searching. And Winry tries to offer whatever it is that Bridget is looking for, whatever reassurance or sympathy or comfort that is needed.

She must be successful in that respect, because Bridget’s shoulders relax from their hunch and she raises her head minutely. “He,” she starts haltingly, “he wouldn’t get offa me.”

Mrs. Cullen starts to raise a protest, but Winry interrupts with a tender, “What do you mean, honey?”

“He asked me to marry him,” Bridget says, curling her bandaged hand to her chest. She steals a glance over at Roger, who seems to have inherited his mother’s venomous glare, and then looks away with a forming scowl. “And I said ‘no’. So he kept asking, and I kept sayin’ ‘no’, and then he started getin’ mad ‘cause I was sayin’ no. And then he finally said he’d make me change my mind and he tried to kiss me. So I punched him!”

Winry glances over at Roger Cullen. He crosses his arms and pouts, like he’s been denied dessert for no good reason. And his mother is still giving Bridget the stink eye, as though turning down a proposal is a grievous insult to both herself and her child.

It’s not her fault, Nick had said.

“Coulda jus’ said ‘yes’,” Roger grumbles sulkily.

Something suspiciously similar to outrage thrills up Winry’s spine, and she places a hand on Bridget’s shoulder, both to reassure her daughter and to keep herself in check, as she turns to Principal Johnson. His expression hasn’t changed much, but he doesn’t look quite as severe and ready to dole out punishment as he had been a moment ago.

“So that’s what happened, then,” she says, and there is some heat in her voice, but she’s too worked up to temper it.

“Yes,” growls Mrs. Cullen venomously. “Your daughter admitted to assaulting my son.”

Bridget squawks a protest. Winry ups her volume as she calmly retorts, “After he attempted to assault her.”

“A kiss is not assault!”

“It is if it’s unwanted,” returns Winry. She flicks her gaze back over to the man presiding over all of this, like a judge in a courtroom. “Principal Johnson, I think this proves that Bridget would never attack anyone unprovoked.”

Principal Johnson steeples his hands, mouth pulled into a considering frown. His wood-colored eyes flit first to Bridget, then to Roger, then between herself and Kelsey Cullen. “True as that may be, she did still punch him, and she needs to answer for that.”

Maternal instincts protest, but Winry stifles them with a sigh. She can tell they won’t walk away unscathed, so some compromises must sometimes be made. “Alright,” she says, which draws another half-formed protest from Bridget. “But Roger needs to be punished too.”

“Absolutely not!” Kelsey snaps, leaping to her feet. Her heels make an awful snapping sound against the floor as she stops her foot to punctuate her shout of, “My son is the victim here!”

Winry recalls Bridget coming home in a foul mood, sitting down on the couch to dig furiously through her backpack for any unsolicited notes that she would then wad up and toss away. She cups her daughter’s shoulder now and tugs her daughter a little closer, which has Bridget glancing up tentatively through her bangs. “Roger has been harassing Bridget over the last few weeks now,” she tells Principal Johnson.

“Which you only just bring up now?” retorts Kelsey, indignant. “You’re just trying to bail your ill-behaved daughter out of—”

“My daughter is not ill-behaved,” Winry interrupts frostily, which has Bridget’s eyes widening a little. “I’ll admit the reaction was a bit extreme, but it was not unprovoked and I only ask that the punishment be fair.”

“Fair?! She broke his nose!”

“Because he was harassing her.”

“You—You’re a real piece of work, you know that Rockbell?”

Her heart pounds in her ears.

First, Winry silently assesses Kelsey Cullen, her defensive posture and her burning eyes and the disgusted sneer of her scarlet mouth, the ferocity that carves itself into her every bone, screaming for blood and recompense. Her gaze flick over to Roger, silent and slightly smug at the prospect of getting off scot-free, but mostly content to let his mother argue his case in his stead. She looks down at Bridget, who is now peering blackly at her bandaged hand as though it is the source of all her evils, which then transitions into a look of defeat and listless resignation as she tucks that hand into her lap. Finally, her gaze flickers over to Principal Johnson, who remains frowning in spite of everything, and just a little bored, like he’d rather this all be quickly dealt with so he can go back to doing whatever it is that principals do.

This is not a fight they are going to win. Not today, anyway.

It’s situations like this where Ed tends to dig himself in deeper. He gets fired up and digs his heel in and refuses to let go until his temper has been sated. Not that Winry isn’t stubborn either, doesn’t get inflamed or incensed in exactly the same way—but she’s more practical about her pigheadedness.

“I see.” Winry rises to her feet. “Go get your things, Bridget. We’re leaving.”

That earns a surprised blink from her daughter, and causes the Cullens to falter. “We are?” Bridget asks.

“Yes, we are. Come on.”

“Wait a minute!” Kelsey Cullen protests. “You can’t just—”

“Yes, we can. You see, this isn’t a police station, my daughter is not a criminal, and we can leave whenever we please.” Winry nods politely to Principal Johnson, who seems just this side of flummoxed. Huh. So he is capable of other facial expressions. Who knew? “Have a good day, Mrs. Cullen, Principal Johnson.”

Dana Fergus shoots them an odd look as they walk out, but Winry keeps her head up and looks straight ahead. Bridget still seems absolutely flummoxed, but she emulates her mother as best she can.

“So...”

“So?”

Bridget bites her lip and shifts the strap of her knapsack on her shoulder. “Am I in trouble?”

The green hills of Risembool sprawl out like a rumpled quilt thrown carelessly aside, the folds and ripples messily rising and falling along the horizon. It’s actually a rather nice day for a stroll. If only the circumstances were better.

“Well,” Winry starts, because this is a particularly tricky subject and it needs to be handled delicately, “I don’t like that you punched him.”

“But it wasn’t my fault!” Bridget protests.

“I know.” They reach the wooden bridge that arches its way over the river that cuts through the fields. The wood is old in places, sagging and creaking, new when Winry was a child but now it needs to be replaced. Underneath the river flows fast and swift and murmurs like a disapproving spectator. “I know. I may not like it, but you were defending yourself, and it was wrong of you get in trouble for that.”

“Right? Principal Johnson’s an idiot.”

“If you had told him your side of the story, I think he would have been more understanding.”

This has her daughter scoffing and hunching her shoulders defensively. “Dad says if I’m ever in trouble, I should punch the other guy in the nose!”

...yeah, that sounds like Ed. And it isn’t bad advise, either, considering the circumstances—even if Winry isn’t overly fond of the idea of her husband encouraging their children to respond violently, sometimes that is the only option. Today proves that.

“I... agree with that,” Winry says, trying to sound as patient and as comforting as she can. “You were only protecting yourself. Principal Johnson was wrong and you shouldn’t have gotten in trouble for what happened.”

A scowl emerges on Bridget’s face. People always say that Bridget takes after Winry—and physically, that’s true. Her blonde hair is more of a flaxen shade than Ed’s deep gold, and her eyes were blue before they recently started to deepen and transition to a greener hue. But her personality is more her father’s, and not just in her growing obsession with all things alchemy-related.

“Then how come I did?” Bridget asks, half-sulky and half-genuine curiosity.

That is a very good question, and Winry has to think about it for a moment before responding. “Well, I guess the fact that you broke Roger’s nose is the main problem. Some might say that you used excessive force.”

“But he—”

“Honey, I know.” This would be so much easier if it was gears and springs, something that Winry could physically dissect and analyze, tinker with, try to find the right position that would make the cogs mesh perfectly. “It just made him look like the victim, when he wasn’t.”

Dissatisfaction makes itself known on Bridget’s face, but she seems to understand the logic of the argument, at least. “So what should I have done?”

Ah. That is a tricky question.

“Well, maybe not hit him so hard?” It sounds halfhearted, said aloud. Winry knows that it’s not as though Bridget intended to break his nose, but it’s best to be conscious of it so there won’t be a repeat of this in the future. “Aim somewhere other than his nose? Maybe just, shout really loudly so that you attract attention—then he’d be caught in the act!”

Bridget looks rather unconvinced. “Would that work?”

“It might.” Even as she says this, it doesn’t sound very reassuring. “You just have to be careful. Pick your battles, y’know?”

One particular board on the bridge creaks loudly beneath Winry’s foot. They make it to the other side of the bridge, and she casts a glance over her shoulder to find that said board is sagging more than the others. It won’t take much for it to fall into the river, fall victim to the ever-rushing current and become battered by the multitude of rocks at the bottom. She should really talk to someone—the local carpenter, maybe—about tearing the old, dilapidated thing down and building a new one in its place.

There is a doubtful look on Bridget’s face, but she only shrugs and looks away with a muttered, “I guess...”

Something in Winry pangs, fierce and sharp. This isn’t something she wants to stick with Bridget—she doesn’t want her daughter to internalize this helplessness, this defeatism. Doesn’t want this to be a guiding principal in the future at her fingertips.

She stills and turns to her daughter. “Let me see your hand.”

Bewildered, Bridget comes to a stop as well, and, though reluctantly, throws her knapsack aside so that she can extend her bandaged hand. Winry drops to her knees so she can better inspect it, running her thumb tenderly over her daughter’s bony knuckles. This earns a few twitches from Bridget’s mouth, which has Winry wondering how much the impact actually jarred Bridget’s metacarpals, if maybe it resulted in a hairline fracture of the bone. Noses tend to be breakable, and punching one doesn’t run as high a risk of breaking your hand as striking the jaw or temple, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

Cattails bend and droop at the riverside, the rustle of the current an ever-steady whisper. White foam laps at the shoreside like a satisfied predator licking its chops. Winry remembers one day, as they walked home, that Ed kept massaging the plasters on his knuckles where he split them punching some bully in the teeth. The whole while, Al dragged his feet guiltily, whether it was his fault or not. Ed got into trouble that day, of course, and at the time, Winry thought it was ridiculous that you should get into trouble for defending yourself.

And she still does think that, to some degree. But the thing is, defending yourself doesn’t have to be so blunt and violent. Self-defense is something you need to be smart about, especially in situations like this. You have to be careful, be smart. Winry does not want to condemn the act of defending yourself—just the rashness with which Bridget acted.

“Hey Mom?”

The uncertainty in Bridget’s cadence is uncharacteristic, and it has Winry peering up at her in surprise. But Bridget is steadfast in keeping her blue-grey-green eyes lowered, as though ashamed. Or scared. Which is nearly absurd, because Bridget rarely allows anything to temper her curiosity. It’s worrying, to say the least. 

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you think... that I shoulda just said ‘yes’?”

To say the question surprises Winry is an understatement. She drops Bridget hand and instead slides her fingers under her daughter’s chin, coaxing her to meet her gaze. “Yes to what?”

“When Roger asked to marry me.” Bridget shifts her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Should I have said ‘yes’?”

Her first impulse is to blurt out a firm absolutely not! or a teasing don’t you think you’re a little too young to be getting married?, but Winry gets the sneaking suspicion that there’s a deeper issue at play. And Bridget is just like Ed in the respect that hasty dismissals or blatant probing will only make her retreat deeper into herself.

“Do you want to marry Roger?”

Bridget’s face scrunches. “No way!”

“Then there you go.”

It isn’t enough, though. Uncertainty causes Bridget’s lips to purse firmly. “But you said pick your battles.”

Yeah, she did. But that isn’t what Winry meant. “I know. But there are some things you fight for. Like who you accept a marriage proposal from.”

“...Roger said I had to say ‘yes’.”

“Well, then Roger’s wrong,” Winry says, and hopes the and so is anyone who tries to say the same manages to ring clear and true. She takes her daughter’s uninjured hand and squeezes reassuringly. “You should only say ‘yes’ if you want to. I didn’t agree to marry your dad because I felt like I had to.” When Bridget only frowns, unconvinced, Winry adds, “And he’s not the only boy who proposed to me, either. A long time ago, your Uncle Al actually asked me to marry him, too.”

That grabs Bridget’s attention. “Really? Uncle Al?”

“Uh huh. It was back when we were still little, and I turned him down.” Of course, she hadn’t known back then that the brothers had actually had a fistfight over the right to propose. “So you don’t have to say ‘yes’.”

Winry hoped this would be enough to ease whatever seems to be troubling Bridget, but that frown returns again. “But why do you,” she starts, and then bites her lip.

Prompting is a situational tactic, and Winry thinks it’ll work now. “Why do you what?”

“Why...” Bridget hesitates, and it looks like she’s about to lose her nerve—but then her face hardens with resolve and she raises her eyes, her determined gaze nearly identical to her father’s. “Why do you have to get married?”

Above, a cloud passes must pass over the sun, because the world darkens a few shades, turns greyer, looses a little bit of its luster. The river’s murmuring loudens a bit, gurgles and whispers like gossipers, while the cattails droop dispiritedly. Winry peers at her daughter, searches her face intently, a tickle of worry in her throat, her heart squeezing in a vice at the unhappy frown that soon dominates Bridget’s features. “Who said that?”

“Everybody.” Bridget retracts her unbandaged hand from Winry’s grip and clasps it over the other, toeing one sneaker into the dirt road. An expression of deep, conflicted pensiveness blossoms across her face, looking so out of place simply because it is something that is suited for an adult rather than a child whose age hasn’t even reached double-digits. “Like—they don’t say it say it, but it’s what they mean. Like... I dunno! You just feel like you gotta get married when you grow up. It’s like, what you’re supposed to do. And I just don’t get why.”

Oh. This is. Oh. Winry—was not expecting to have a conversation like this.

“Well, I suppose...” Winry bites her lip. How does she phrase this? What does she even say to something like that? Her lungs seem to contract around the words, trying to actively keep them locked up. “I suppose... most people think that getting married is... the ‘right’ thing to do? But, y’know, not everybody thinks that.”

A skeptical look emerges on Bridget’s face, then. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Winry tries to infuse as much reassurance into her tone as she can. “Not everyone wants to get married.”

“But everyone is married,” Bridget retorts unhappily. “Uncle Al and Aunt Mei, Granny Izumi and Grampa Sig, you and Dad—”

“Uncle Roy and Aunt Riza aren’t married,” Winry points out.

“But everyone says they’re practically married, so they don’t count.” The scowl returns, but with it is an undertone of distress, an almost pleading look. “Like, I get that you can love someone, but do you have to want to marry ‘em too?”

Hastily, Winry does a quick inventory of all the adults she’s known throughout her life, and to her chagrin, she finds that Bridget has a point. Most of the couples she’s ever known were married to each other, with maybe the sole exception of Aunt Trisha and Mr. Hohenheim (although, Winry hesitates to bring that example up because it really should be Ed discussing that particular subject with their children). It’s astonishing that she’s never really noticed it before, and never questioned it either.

They say that children notice the peculiarity of things but, just, wow. What is she supposed to say to that?

Granny would know, probably. Granny claimed she’d never been married, had raised her son all by herself while managing her career and never needed a man’s help. She was a single aberration in Winry’s young life, an ideal that she had striven to emulate for as long a she could remember. A strong Rockbell woman, fierce and independent and somehow compassionate in addition.

If Granny were here, she’d be able to offer herself as an example and probably become Bridget’s inspiration the same way she’d been for Winry. But Granny passed away two summers back and Winry’ chest aches with a fresh wave of grief at her absence.

And right now, her daughter has this disappointed look, dropping her eyes down to her sneakers with a sigh. “Guess it’s normal, huh?”

Normal...

And suddenly, Winry remembers—after the pinecone incident, when Granny was tugging the damn things from her hair while she sat at the kitchen table and sniffed and wondered what was so wrong with liking automail that the other girls felt the need to pelt her.

“Maybe it is,” Winry says, but she cups her daughter’s chin and coaxes her into looking up again. Blue-grey-green eyes. “But y’know, so what if it is normal? That doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

“You—You don’t?”

“No. See, the thing about ‘normal’ is, it isn’t a requirement. You keep asking why you ‘have to’ do this, and, well, you don’t.” She meets Bridget’s befuddlement with her own smile, bright and reassuring and as tender as the one Granny offered her along with the kerchief with which she dried her eyes. Her ears still ring with the words spoken to her then, when gnarled hands cupped her small ones and squeezed tight. “Wanna know a secret?”

Although skeptical again, Bridget nods.

“There are a lot of people,” Winry tells her, “that think it’s not normal for a girl to like automail and machines and such.”

Incomprehension flits across the seven-year-old’s face, then hardens into a bewildered frown. “But... you’re, like, the best mechanic ever.”

If this were not such a serious topic, Winry would probably be gushing to know that her daughter thinks so highly of her. “Yup. But they think that, ‘cause I’m a girl, it’s weird for me to be a mechanic. They think girls shouldn’t be mechanics at all. You remember what Mrs. Cullen said today about me not being feminine?”

Understanding dawns in Bridget’s eyes. “But—But she’s wrong.”

It’s such a simple thing, hearing the affirmation out loud. Few can understand how reassuring it is to simply have someone agree with them, and what that does to ease the burden a little.

“That’s right.” Winry rises to her feet. Her knees were starting to ache from crouching low for so long. Granny should really be here, be the one offering the reassuring smile and the wise words of comfort, but Granny isn’t here and Winry will just have to manage in her stead. “So what if it’s not normal for a girl to like automail? I’m still a girl, and I still like automail, and no matter what anyone else says, that’s not going to change.” She plants her hands square on her hips and grins. “‘Normal’ is what other people decide. Either you can listen to them, let them decide things for you, or you can make your own decisions and be your own person.

“Sure, a lot of people expect you to get married when you grow up. But it’s not about them. I married your dad because I wanted to, but not because I had to. You can love someone without wanting to marry them. You don’t have to get married in order to have kids, or even have kids at all if you don’t want to. It’s all up to you.”

All of sudden, the world brightens. That cloud that came along to blot out the sun must have moved away, and the grass turns vibrant green again, the light brimming with spring-shine gold. The cattails raise their heads, and the river’s current makes a rhythmic trickling that all but fades into the background. A warm breeze drifts in from somewhere, leaves a soft, sweet kiss on Winry’s cheek.

It’s slow, and soft, and so very subtle, but Bridget’s face begins to brighten a little, to relax. The burden that was weighing her down seems to have sloughed off—or at the very least, it’s lightened, and she isn’t struggling beneath it anymore. “So... what if I never wanna get married?”

“Then no one can make you,” Winry says.

“Not ever?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really, really?”

“Really, really!”

Winry offers hand out, fingers outstretched, waiting, beckoning. She can feel the sun on her palms, feels spring tickle every callous accumulated from twisting screwdrivers or gripping wrenches or soldering metal plate together. Her wedding ring is on her other hand, but no one can say it’s not at home among the roughness of a metalworker’s hands, or can say that she had no choice but to accept it.

She knows she’s not conventional. She knows that she is not the traditional housewife, because housewives usually don’t spend hours in a workshop working with wiring and hydraulics and running a business in addition to raising children. But anyone who says she can’t do it has another thing coming.

After a moment of hesitation, Bridget raises her bandaged hand and places it Winry’s. She might not ever have a mechanic’s callouses—she might not roughen her hands with tools, might instead accrue roughness in her fingertips from holding sticks of chalk with which she’ll trace scientific circles, but those callouses are still hers.

Bridget scoops her knapsack up, and they continue walking, hand in hand, firm squeeze in firm squeeze, their oddness linking them as much as blood.

Then she glances up at Winry. That uncertain shade of blue-grey-green in her eyes is still changing, still finding itself, and no one can make it settle without its consent. “Hey Mom?”

“Yes?”

When Bridget looks away, Winry almost fears that she’s lost her nerve again, and that the point hasn’t gotten through as much as she hoped. But then she notices the way her daughter has her cheeks puffed out, accompanied by a pink flush. “I don’t care if anybody thinks you’re weird. I’m... I’m glad you’re my Mom.”

Then, because she is too much like her father for her own good and therefor has an intense aversion to leaving things on a sweet note, she adds, “Even if I’m not into automail, or whatever.”

And despite herself, Winry can’t help but laugh. “Me too.”

They’re halfway to the house when her daughter turns to Winry and asks, “So... I’m not grounded?”

Winry thinks about that for a moment. “Just as long as you promise to keep the punching to a minimum. And only for an emergency.”

“Okay. Promise.”

“And don’t tell your father about how I lost my temper today.”

“Huh? Why?”

Because I’m always giving him a hard time about getting so worked up and if he finds out, he will never let me here the end of it. “Because it’s just between us girls, ‘kay?”

“Oh. Okay!”

Crisis averted.

It has been a long, long day. Perhaps the long day to end all long days. It’s passed dark by the time Winry finally closes her workshop up for the day and stumbles exhaustedly into the kitchen. She may not be a traditional housewife, but nuts and bolts don’t feed her children and she’s still responsible with providing a decent meal. At least she is today, with Ed being out of the house, which by default makes dinner duty her burden to bear tonight.

She’s just starting to pull out pots and pans from the cupboards when sound of the front door opening and closing resounds from the front hall.

“I’m home!” Ed calls out.

Dammit. She’d hope to have something on the stove before he came home.

“In the kitchen!” she calls back. Okay, Winry, buckle down. You’ve had a long day but it’s not over yet. Just one last thing before you can collapse and listen to that wireless drama that may or may not be your guilty pleasure.

There’s a lag between the time it takes for Ed to come in the front door, greet the kids, shake them off, and then meander his way over to the kitchen. By the time he’s sticking his head through the door, she’s already heating up the stove and started searching the icebox for whatever can be made as quickly as possible.

“Hey,” he greets casually.

“Hey.” She pulls some frozen sausage out from the icebox and sets it on the counter, next to the pan. “Some of the commissions ended up eating a little more of my time than I thought”—she tactfully avoids mentioning the principal’s office and all the excitement associated with it, because again, he will never let her hear the end of it—“and I could really use some help—”

She breaks off when she turns to find him, standing there, holding up a couple paper bags with the logo of a local Xingese restaurant emblazoned upon them. His brows are raised as though to say am I the best husband in the world or what?.

Every ounce of stress and tension makes a swift exodus from her skeleton. “You brought takeout.”

“I got a look at your schedule this morning,” he explains, setting the bags down on the breakfast table. “After all that, I figured worrying about dinner would be one thing too many. I mean, seriously Win, you gotta moderate—mph!”

He doesn’t really get to finish, because she’s vaulted forward and crashed her mouth against his. They linger like that for a while, her arching up on her toes to meet him, him with one hand cupping her jaw, mouth against mouth. Then they break for air, and he arches brow at her, pleasantly bemused.

“I should get takeout more often,” he teases.

If she weren’t absolutely dizzy with relief right now, she’d probably huff and thump his chest. As it is, she just leans her forehead against his shoulder with a sigh. “You are the literal best. Thank you.”

“Always am.” God, she can practically hear his stupid smirk. How did she fall in love with this idiot again? “How was your day?”

Winry thinks about that for a moment. Thinks about walking out of Principal Johnson’s office and holding Bridget’s hand on the walk home. Thinks about everything she’s done today, about finishing her commissions and completing all her tune-ups and the callouses that proudly adorn her hands.

And she grins. “Empowering.”

Ed pulls a puzzled look. “What does that mean?”

“Sorry. It’s a secret,” she says, detangling herself from him, and then raises her voice to call out, “Kids! Dinner!”