Author: Yellow Mask PM
Hands can tell a lot about a person...EdxWin oneshotRated: Fiction K+ - English - Romance - Edward E. & Winry R. - Words: 531 - Reviews: 23 - Favs: 49 - Follows: 3 - Published: 04-25-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2911518
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
By Yellow Mask
Disclaimer: I do not own FMA.
Spoilers: None overt.
Hands can tell a lot about a person.
This is Ed's first thought as he looks down at his new automail limb. His hands can say a lot about him. One flesh and blood, rife with creases and indents, his own unique pattern carved into his fingertips. One metal, with smooth planes and tiny hinges, screws imbedded at critical points to hold it together.
They are very different, his hands, flesh and metal. One old, one new; symbolic, almost. His flesh hand, soft and warm, like his past. His metal hand, hard and cold, almost a herald of what awaits him.
And he finds a strange feeling rising in him. He identifies it as regret.
It is at a state dance that he again muses on how much hands can tell about someone.
He's here only because Mustang threatened him with dismissal if he didn't attend. He was scowling in a corner when one of the pretty ladies that had been fluttering around the dance floor all night offered him her hand.
He was about to refuse when he caught Mustang's eye – or more, his raised eyebrow, prompting him to accept…or else. Ed grimaced and took her hand in his.
Her hand is soft and delicate, as though he could crush it to dust with his fingers in a heartbeat. It is a hand that has not known hard work or suffering or pain. Plastic nails tell him that this is a woman used to farce, accustomed to the pretence of sincerity and happiness.
She is a true lady, one who had never had to suffer all the world's hardships.
And he finds a strange feeling rising in him. He identifies it as contempt.
The next time he muses on hands in also the last.
He has been forced to return to Risembool once more for repairs. He's standing in the shade of a large tree, itching to get going again, when Winry comes up. She announces it's dinnertime, and grasps his hand to pull him inside.
Her hand is not like a delicate feather; her fingers are firm and sure as she leads him onwards. He can feel the pressure on his hand that hints at the strength in those slender fingers. The palm of her hand is rough and calloused, with the grittiness of dirt and oil, the old scars gained in childhood accidents, the newer marks inflicted by sharp metal. Winry's is a hand that is used to hard work, a hand that has earned it's keep many times over.
It's not a lady-like hand, it's strong. Strong and real. Real and honest, with no deceptive paint or ornaments. No deep sins or insufferable regrets. She's untainted, and yet she's not innocent or naïve.
And he feels a strange feeling rising within him. It's only many months later that he identifies it as love.
Because no matter how many people say that a lady's hands should be soft and pretty, he'll take strength over beauty any day.