Disclaimer: As much as I love Ed, I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. I can only dream up crazy stories.
Author's notes: I wanted to thank everyone who commented on Our Father, and with the responses I got about my descriptions of Ed's automail, I thought maybe I'd try elaborating on the idea.
Also, this is my entry for the 42-Days contest (challenge #2) on the ff .net message board. So yes, fan, fiction, and contest all exist in this entry and no, there is no romance and none implied.
Warning: mild angst, minor language

Cloth Covered Metal

by JeiC

Sitting down on the bed, I dry my hair with one hand. It's getting pretty long now, and I have contemplated cutting it, but I won't. Al doesn't have a body anymore so the least I can do is grow mine out enough for the both of us…even if it means getting picked on by Winry for looking like a girl. Ha! Edward Elric being mistaken for a girl – not likely, she'll sooner be mistaken for a boy with her love of automail.

Shifting my weight onto my real leg as I stand back up, I slowly make my way over to the closet. My boxers stick to me a little oddly, but in the time it took for me to walk from the shower and back to my room, I pretty much dried off.

It's only been about six months since the procedure and I'm just getting used to moving around doing things by myself. It took a long time for me to build up the strength for the metal limbs, never mind moving. I still can't get used to the unfeeling movement of the automail. Somedays, I wonder if it was worth it, but then I see Al, and I know what I have to do, and I need the automail to do it.

Out of some instinctive reflex, I go to reach up with my right arm and throw my balance off – managing to grab a hold of the closet door frame with my left. Setting myself back on my feet, I try the attempt again – remembering to watch my balance as I pull a plain, white t-shirt from the shelf, fumbling to keep it in my grasp without tearing it.

Hope Al didn't hear me trip – he'd be telling Aunt Pinako and Winry in a heartbeat. Then that obsessive automail fan of a friend of mine would be yelling at me not to damage my metal limbs. No one seems to have a problem when I tear my clothes accidentally, but people around here are weird like that. I don't think I can count the number of shirts alone I destroyed just trying to get dressed.

Shifting my balance in order to reach for a pair of loose, black pants, my metal foot begins to slide on the hardwood floor, and I'm quickly shifting back so I don't fall on my ass. That would definitely get Al's attention and then I wouldn't be allowed to get dressed by myself again for a long time…maybe even have to live in the Rockbell household again until I could prove myself in their little rehabilitation challenges that they set for me. Well, I did say I wanted to be meeting that Mustang guy in a year so I guess those stupid little games are helpful.

Finally snagging the pair of pants I wanted, I use my left arm to toss the items onto the bed. I am not up to challenging myself to a balance keeping contest this early in the morning. Slowly, I make my way back to my bed, the sounds of flesh and metal hitting wood are suddenly loud in the early morning quiet. Maybe I'm just listening too hard in case I might've alerted Al – it's kind of embarrassing to have my younger brother treat me like I'm a fragile doll.

Plopping back down on my bed, I contemplate that – I'm the oldest, so I have to be strong enough for the both of us. I will get Al back to his original body…no matter the cost. He deserves no less from me in repentance of my sin.

Picking up the t-shirt, I examine a stain that I swore wasn't on there before. Taking a quick sniff of the barely noticeable blotch, I bring my automail hand to my face to compare. I guess I put a little too much oil in the joints, and I pause in my dressing to take a moment to wipe my hand with my forgotten towel as well as the rest of the arm and then my leg just in case.

That's something I haven't quite gotten used to yet either, but with time, I'll be able to do it like a professional. Though, if I wore black, it would solve the stain problem. When the automail was first docked on, and hopefully never again, it oozed a lot of oil. Winry said something about that was because I wasn't going to be moving it for awhile. Oh, I could move it as if it was my own limb, but the sheer weight and the whole balance thing kept me almost immobile for a month or so. Yeah, that whole thinking it was my own arm and leg thing had me on the floor a lot…got good at doing push-ups.

Opening the shirt, I gently put the automail through the short sleeve before I pull the rest over my head and shove my other arm into its designated sleeve. You know now is not a good time to wonder if I put the shirt on backwards or not. Pulling at the collar with my left, I look down to see if the tag is there, and then feel in the back, grateful that it is where it belongs.

That was where I really started to ruin shirts after I was able to dress myself. I'd get frustrated and just pull at the shirt as I normally would, and well…cloth doesn't stand up well to metal. It isn't so much me that needs to rehabilitate to the automail, but me remembering that it is automail so I don't destroy things around me. You'd think with the weight alone I'd remember, but even during times when the metal is cold against my skin, I simply react as if they were my limbs. Aunt Pinako said it was something called Phantom Limb Syndrome. I don't like that name, so I just call it me being an idiot and forgetting again.

Shaking out my pants, I repeat the same procedure, making sure the tag attached to the elastic waist is in the back, I ease my leg of metal in…following soon after with my other leg, but not as gently.

I'm gentle with the automail and rough with the flesh. Very backwards, I know, but someday that might change. Someday I might not recognize the difference, though I highly doubt that. I don't think I'll ever get used to the touchless mobility of a normal person.

Slowly coming to my feet again, as to not lose my balance, I pull the waist band up over my hips and wander over to my dresser. Now, for the most part, the metal is covered by cloth and I feel a little less mechanical.

Don't get me wrong, I am utterly amazed at the work that goes into the automail, and eternally grateful to Aunt Pinako and Winry for doing such impressive work. Just the concept alone of being able to turn metal into a fully functional arm or leg, minus the sense of touch, is something I don't think your run of the mill alchemist could work out. Doesn't mean I can't bitch at them when I get frustrated with it.

Picking up a single white glove, I slip it on over the automail, covering all the joints that fascinate me when no one is looking. Next, I grab a brush that was given to me by Winry with the gloveless hand and work out the tangles from my shower. With that accomplished, I set about braiding my elongated hair – it was something Winry taught me to do since I refused to let anyone cut it. Only mom was allowed to do that…and that crazy alchemy teacher of mine, Izumi. I learned fast not to mess with her when she had her mind set on a task.

As for what is with the glove, it really hurts when my hair gets caught in the joints, so it acts as a sort of skin to protect my otherwise aching scalp.

Al is probably still down in the study reading through the books that our father left behind. Closing my eyes, I rid my mind of the thought of him – that is too painful of a subject to think about now and I've got other things to take care of. Namely a tin can of a younger brother. I still see him as human and always will, no matter what form he is in, and I won't let him down.

Tying off the end of the braid, I make my way back to my bed and plop down, digging out the one piece of indulgence that I allow myself from under my pillow, and kick back to wait and see who shows up first. I think even Al would find it weird to find a fiction book in my hands instead of an alchemy volume.

Fin
December 2004
by JeiC
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