Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and all its affiliated characters, places, etc., do not belong to me. They are the property of Hiromu Arakawa.

She hears the roar of the muffler long before the bike comes into view. As he pulls into the yard and cuts the engine, she remains focused on the job at hand. He pulls his helmet off his head, blond tresses to rival her own cascading down his back in the usual braid, his bangs flopping, disheveled and sweaty, over his forehead and into his eyes. She glances up briefly as he drops the kickstand and swings his leg over the bike, the buckles on his boots jingling as he approaches her.

"What'd you bust this time?" she asks.

He grunts, hooking the helmet under his arm and shifting his weight onto his right leg. "What makes you think something's busted?" he says.

She quirks an eyebrow but keeps her eyes trained on the bike in front of her, its guts bare to her probing tools. "There's no other reason for you to make the drive all the way from Central."

He doesn't say anything at first, merely watches her as she works. He sighs after a moment, dropping into a squat beside her, resting the helmet between his legs and leaning over to see the bike from her level; she leans over slightly to accommodate him, furrowing her eyebrows. "I just brought her in for a tune-up," he says.

She flicks her eyes in his direction, her frown deepening. "She's not due for another month. What'd you do?"

He stands back up. "Mustang's had me at Briggs the past three weeks," he explains.

Finally she stops what she's doing to fully look at him. "You drove her all the way to Briggs and back?"

He shrugs, "The weather's been decent."

"What about all your gear?"

"I had it transported by train."

She still doesn't quite understand, but she hasn't always understood everything he ever did, so she relents. "I can't have her back to you until next week, unfortunately. Carol here's worse off than Skoal thought and Black Betty's on the fritz."

He glances at the latter bike holed up in the shop behind her. "Damn," he says, "I'd hoped Betty could keep me company."

She shakes her head. "Sorry. She's out of commission for now. Darla's good to go, though. I know she's not your favorite, but she's better than ol' Butch."

His eyes dart to the dreaded truck, an old pickup he's had more than his fair share of mix-ups with. He frowns, "I'll stick with Darla, then, if you don't mind."

She nods, "No problem. The keys are on the pegboard. I'll have Trisha ready for you this time next week."

He strides into the shop behind her as she continues to tinker, the singing of metal on metal floating through the air to echo off the walls in the garage. He snags Darla's keys from their peg and turns back around.

He straddles Darla's seat and tugs his helmet back over his head. "See you next week," he says. Before she can answer him he's revved the engine and is off in a streak of black back down the highway towards Central.

She listens to the roar of the engine long after he's gone.

She hears the thud of his stereo before she even rings the bell.

His home is modest, a three bedroom, two bath ordeal, simple enough for a man of his station. The only thing out of place is the gargoyle out front. "Badass, right?" he'd chirped when he'd shown it to her. She hadn't the heart to argue with him; it was his home, after all, not hers.

She isn't particularly surprised to meet flashing blue eyes similar to her own when the door opens. The girl before her, unlike his home, is immodestly dressed, panties and one of his shirts slung on haphazardly, the rumple of her hair telling Winry more than she ever wanted to know. The girl scowls at her, dark hair framing her face in a halo of shadows. "Yeah?" she says.

Winry clears her throat. "Ed here?" she asks. Better to keep it simple. She's aware of the type of women he usually brings home. She didn't dance well with crazy bitches. She's saved by his appearance behind the girl in the doorway, shirtless and in shorts, barefoot with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He gently grasps the girls shoulder and draws her back a little, leaning against the doorframe as he resumes brushing his teeth. He grunts at her in greeting around his toothbrush. She holds out Trisha's keys. "She's ready to go," she says.

He takes the keys from her and nods, holding the door open for her as she steps in past the other girl, trying to ignore the scowl lining her features. Winry keeps her own face as impassive as possible as she follows him to his room, the other girl disappearing into his bathroom and turning on the shower. Winry lets out a sigh of relief.

Ed, however, is aware of her distress. He holds Darla's keys just out of reach. "It could be you," he says. The full brunt of his words is diminished by the toothbrush, so she finds it much easier to ignore than the last time, or the time before that. Still, she bristles and refuses to answer, reaching for the keys to her bike. He releases them easily enough and leans back against his desk, resuming his toothbrushing. She wonders just how long he plans to go at that before he spits. "How much do I owe you?" he says.

Winry shrugs, "The usual." He nods and without another word disappears back into the bathroom. She hears the sink and the telltale sounds of him finishing his business with the toothbrush. In a few minutes he returns, wiping his face with a towel. She vaguely notices the shine of a golden shadow along his jaw, glinting in the same way his hair and eyes do, all similar shades of gold. He reaches for his wallet on the nightstand, pulls out a few bills and hands them to her. She takes them with a nod and tucks them into the interior pocket of her brown leather jacket.

He follows her out of the room, past the bathroom still steaming with the girl's shower, and out the front door to where the two bikes sit side by side. His car, a black flashy thing she hadn't much taste for – save what was under the hood; that fascinated her immensely – hid in the garage. He stands next to her in the driveway, still shirtless and barefooted, still disheveled from whatever he'd been doing before she'd arrived, and watches as she slips her helmet off of his bike and moves toward her own. Before she has a chance to rev the engine he speaks to her: "Will you be at Garfiel's Friday?"

She looks up at him, glad for the dark tint of the lens on her helmet, as she settles for a moment on her backside, resting on the seat of her bike, kickstand still down, key half turned to start the motor. She sighs, "I'd planned on it, yeah. I don't get the game so well at home."

He nods and says, as she'd expected, "Alright, I'll see you there."

She only nods in return and starts the bike, waving to him half-heartedly as she pulls out of the drive.

She listens intently to Darla's roar long after she's left him, attempting to drown out the swirl of her thoughts.

She's ignoring the cheers from behind her at the pool tables as she focuses on the game, beer bottle poised at her lips, ready to sip, as a hand slips across her stomach, dangerously high for her taste. She freezes, gritting her teeth, but before she can wail on the guy she hears a low, menacing voice to her right.

"Do it again and I'll watch you limp out that door."

She relaxes in recognition as the hand hastily – blessedly – leaves her stomach and the guy stumbles away. She doesn't turn as Ed settles on the stool next to her, ordering a Heineken. "Game started yet?" he asks.

She shakes her head, "Ten more minutes, I think." Their blatant refusal to acknowledge his rescue of her goes unmentioned. If he hadn't been there it wouldn't have been any different. Winry could well take care of herself, he simply knew she didn't particularly like to squash a man's ego like that. Well, any man's but his. She was well acquainted and well versed in squashing his ego, and he thought she took some sort of sadistic pleasure in it sometimes…

His Heineken is served and he is preoccupied by his first sip when Winry orders two Reubens for them, his with no dressing, with fries. He doesn't object and the bartender moves away to holler at the cook through the door behind him.

They remain in companionable silence as the game starts until their food is set before them. She notices that the sandwiches have been switched and without saying anything changes the plates around. He asks for mustard, she for ketchup, and they dig in. She looks back at the flatscreen. "Foul," she says. He glances up just in time.

"How do you do that?" he asks as the whistle blows.

She shrugs, chewing as she watches the ball bounce at the free throw line. "It's all in the body language. I'm surprised with all the martial arts you do you can't tell it, too."

He ignores the jibe. "He's not going to make either shot," he says.

She raises an eyebrow. "Have you been paying attention to his stats? His free throws are at eighty-five percent. What makes you think he'll miss these?"

He inclines his head to the TV. "Wrist brace," he says.

As the first shot smacks off the rim she nods. "Fair enough."

They continue watching the game in this manner, finishing their sandwiches by half time and into their sixth round of drinks by the time the third quarter starts. He leans on his elbows, hands clutching his beer bottle as he looks over at her. She's leaning her chin on her hand, her own bottle unattended and dripping with condensation in front of her. He can see the alcohol induced flush on her cheeks but knows well that she isn't drunk. If any woman could hold her liquor, it was Winry Rockbell. He mimics her position, turning slightly toward her.

"Hey," he says.

She turns to him. "What?"

He inclines his head again. "Sorry about the other day."

She stares at him for a moment and then turns back to the game. "No worries," she says. "It isn't the first time."

He sighs, turning his attention back to the TV. They stare at it for a few more minutes, following the players up and down the court. "It doesn't have to be that way, you know," he says.

She doesn't turn to him this time. "You say that like it's my choice to make," she replies.

He glances over at her. "Isn't it?"

She shakes her head. "No, bro. That's all you."

He bristles. "Don't call me that."

She smirks. "Sorry, bro."

He tugs on her arm, turning her to face him. Her eyes are slightly wide, the blue of them flashing against the neon signs behind him. He scowls at her. "Winry, I'm serious." She blinks owlishly at him for a moment before her shoulders sag.

"Edward…" she starts. Her mouth works but no words come out. He stares at her imploringly, his golden eyes begging her to say something, anything. In the end she gives up, shakes her head, and turns her attention back to the game. "Not now, Edward," she says. He sags in defeat, resigning himself to another Heineken and the end of the game.

After the game is over they order more drinks and start their usual six rounds of pool. Neither of them are really sure when this tradition started, sports, drinks, food and billiards, but they're willing to bet it was somewhere around senior year of high school. Nobody really knows why they play six rounds, either. It just somehow became the norm, so the other regulars at Garfiel's know that when Ed and Winry start on a table, it won't be open again for at least an hour, if not more.

Beyond the normal billiard banter, they don't really talk. She's still distressed at his earlier attempts at a serious conversation and he's still flustered at trying to talk to her about it in the first place. He knows better than to try to bring it up again, especially in the crowd the billiards tables create. At the bar is a different story, they can have semi-serious conversations there without really being intruded upon. On the floor, however, is a completely different story.

"Looks like she's kicking your ass again, eh, Fullmetal?"

He stiffens at the voice but doesn't turn to its owner, instead leaning over to line up his shot. "Mustang," he growls.

Said gentleman flashes Winry a winning smile and she grins in reply as he tucks her under his arm in a friendly hug. "Winry, I see you're doing well. How's the shop?" he says.

She shrugs, curling her fingers back around her cue as he departs from their embrace. "Thriving. I've got a fair amount of business now that the weather's warming up."

His reply is interrupted by a pretty blonde approaching with two glasses. She offers him one and then smiles at Winry.

"Riza!" Winry cries, "How are you? I haven't seen you in ages!"

Riza shrugs, "Same old, same old. Keeping the Colonel in line," she says.

Ed nudges Winry from her left. "Your shot," he says. He scowls at Mustang as he takes a swig of his beer. "The hell are you doing here, Roy?" he asks.

The Colonel smirks, "Making sure my most valuable soldier is keeping out of trouble before he ships off to Briggs," he says.

Winry's drawback pauses and Ed flinches; both reactions are momentary, as Winry follows through and Ed resumes scowling at his superior officer. "Thanks for checking up on me, but I'm fine. I'll be ready to go on Wednesday."

Mustang nods and hooks Riza's arm in his own. He isn't blind and recognizes the tension between his two young friends. "Good," he says, and turns to lead Riza away towards a group of soldiers at a table in the corner. Riza waves good naturedly at Winry, who returns the gesture as she reaches for her beer.

While the smile still hovers on her lips, she glances sweetly at Ed. "Were you going to tell me you were leaving or just show up on my doorstep in a month asking for another tune-up after driving to and from Briggs again?"

He sighs, racking up her scratch. "I honestly don't know," he says.

And like the earlier conversation, this one ends abruptly.

She throws her head back and drowns herself in the sound of the crack of the billiards balls against one another, loud rock music filling her ears as she calls for another drink.

She hears the jingle of the keys as he snags them from her jacket pocket.

"Hey!" she cries, "Give those back!"

He shakes his head, tucking the keys in his own pocket. "No way," he says. "You're in no condition to drive." She starts to protest when he interrupts her. "Sequence to reassembling a V6 engine, go."

She stares at him for a moment, then sags in defeat without trying. All her years in school and training couldn't allow her to conjure everything she knew when she was drunk. Sober, she'd have finished answering him by now. He was right.

"Fine," she says.

He snags her helmet off her bike and slides it over her head before saddling his own bike. She follows behind him, wrapping her arms around him as he tugs on his own helmet and starts his bike. They both know Garfiel will keep an eye on her bike until she can come to retrieve it. He wasn't the most trusted proprietor for nothing.

They don't talk as he drives her to his home, the gargoyle laughing at her as she stumbles up the front steps. As she reaches out to catch herself on the porch she feels strong arms pull her back up and realizes that its Edward laughing, not the gargoyle. She scowls at him. "Shaddup," she says.

He smiles at her and unlocks the door, flipping on the foyer light as she sidles in behind him. He shuts and relocks the door as she unzips her jacket and attempts to start on her boots before it's completely off. He chuckles at her again, dropping his keys and wallet on a table to his left. Instead of watching her stumble more he gently leads her to a bench on the opposite wall. He tugs her jacket off, hanging it on a hook next to his own, and bends down to remove her boots. She slumps and her scowl deepens. "I can do it," she protests.

He nods, "I'm sure you can."

"Don't patronize me."

He glances up at her with a smirk as he pulls off the first boot. She's silent as he disposes of the other one. She waits as he takes off his own boots and then takes his hand as he leads her down the hall. She isn't so drunk that she can't walk, not so drunk that she can't focus or see straight. However, she might have a slight hangover in the morning…

In his bedroom he tugs open a drawer, tossing a shirt and a pair of boxers at her without asking. She wonders briefly if this is how all the other girls end up in his clothes, if he really has some sort of sick, egotistical desire to see his women in his own clothes. She frowns at the thought before turning to walk into his bathroom to change.

She emerges a few minutes later, immensely more comfortable than before, and flicks off the bathroom light as she glides into his bedroom. She stops and stares at him for a second, shirtless and tugging on a pair of flannel pants over his boxers, his back to her. She clears her throat and he turns to her, tugging the elastic that holds his hair back out from his tresses. As they cascade around his shoulders he asks, "You staying in here tonight or do you want the guest room?"

She blinks at him, wringing her fingers together. Her eyes fall to the floor, a blush staining her cheeks. She doesn't say anything as he strides up to her, laying one strong hand on her shoulder and reaching up to tug on her own hairbow, the platinum of her hair tumbling wildly from its neat ponytail as he draws it out and away from her head. She sighs and presses her face into his bare chest as he drags his fingers through the strands of her hair. "You're welcome to sleep in here," he murmurs.

Winry knows this, has always known this, has always wanted to, but has always denied the invitation. Anytime she found herself staying with him she retired to the guest room in dejected solitude. It wasn't that he didn't want her with him, he had repeatedly made it clear that he did, rather it was that she couldn't handle the uncertainty of such an arrangement.

Perhaps it was the way she'd seen him treat other women, one night stands of little consequence, each and every one of them. Perhaps it was that she was scared, that she recognized the way he looked at her, the way his eyes pleaded with her, the way her own heart cried out for him, that kept her away from him. Whatever it was, whatever it had been in the past, the alcohol, usually not against her, as she'd denied him every other time she'd been intoxicated in his home, would not let her decline this time. She hesitantly nods into his chest, turning to crawl into his bed as he turns out the light and shuts his door.

He snuggles in next to her, and without saying anything tugs her into his arms. She burrows into his shoulder, very much conscious of the hardness of his chest and arms against her, aware of the thump-thumping of his heartbeat and the way their hair dances on the pillows. Winry sighs into his skin, whispering his name: "Edward…"

He tightens his hold on her momentarily. "Hmm?"

She pulls back slightly, meeting his gaze as he lazily looks down at her. "Why don't you ever tell me when you're being deployed?" she asks.

He blinks at her, wishing he could look away from her eyes, and sighs. "It usually isn't for very long and I don't want you to worry," he says. It's lame, he knows. The lamest-ass excuse he's got, but it's the truth. They've known each other since they were kids. She's the biggest worry-wart he knows.

She looks down, watching her fingers dance on his chest. "So ignoring me… You're trying to protect me?"

He sighs. "In a major jackass sort of way, yes."

She refuses to meet his gaze and remains silent for some time. He keeps his eyes fixed on her hair, struggling with the urge to kiss the top of her head.

It occurs to him that he has never kissed Winry, not even on the cheek or forehead. It strikes him as odd that he's never done that, that being best friends growing up, being aware of how he's felt about her for years, that he's never once even tried to kiss her. He feels his face heat up, however, at all the times he's imagined kissing her, among other things.

It strikes him as odd, also, that as close as they are, as close as they have been growing up, that there is so much distance between them. One would expect his best friend, a girl, to be his first kiss, his first love, his first sexual partner. But Winry hadn't been. Scratch that – she had definitely been his first love, but not the first person he'd kissed or slept with.

That bothers him.

He realizes this and knows he can't go another minute without knowing what her lips feel like against his, what she tastes like. He tucks his hand underneath her chin and draws her face to his slowly. She doesn't resist him, but her eyes are wide in surprise. He stares into the blue depths of them, his own eyes a burnished bronze in the darkness of his room. Their noses brush against one another and he can taste her breath mingling with his own. They hover there for a moment, daring to stare at one another in a way they never have before.

She realizes then that she loves him, she always has, and that the unnamed tension she's felt every time another woman had opened his door half naked has been jealousy.

"Winry…" her name is barely off his lips before she, to his surprise and delight, closes the distance between them and molds her lips to his. The feeling is like none either has ever experienced before and they quickly tangle into one another, one of his arms around her back, the other hand tangled in her hair as she cradles his jaw in both of hers. After several moments they break away, breathing heavily, pressing their foreheads together. He tightens his hold on her, desperately trying to catch his breath.

"Ed," she murmurs.

He nods against her.

"From now on, let me know when you're leaving and when you'll be home," she says.

He pulls back to look into her eyes again, the moonlight from the window dancing in her eyes. His face breaks into a grin, "Sure," he says. "Every time, so long as you'll be waiting for me."

Winry smiles back at him. "When have I ever abandoned you, Ed?"

His face softens and he brushes his fingertips across her cheek, "Never," he says. He kisses her again.

They aren't intimate that night, a novelty for him that he delights in. He's never known what it feels like to just have her in his arms, and he realizes that it is enough. They had waited so long – she had waited so long – surely more time wouldn't hurt him. He knows, though, that he will never bring home any other women ever again, not when he knows she is waiting for him.

When he leaves for Briggs the following Wednesday morning, Winry smiles as she sees him off, writing the sound of Trisha's engine on her memory so that she'll be ready when he shows up for another early tune-up.