The Same Coin

The People You Kill

The taxi led the way out to the countryside, with the moving truck following two car lengths behind. Buccaneer looked less than comfortable squeezed into the backseat beside her, his head bouncing off the roof with every bump and taking up three-quarters of the seat. Fortunately for him, however, the drive was nearly over. Winry wondered briefly whether she should consider buying a car as well, or if a bicycle would be sufficient for the trip back to the city when necessary.

She'd awaken more intimate with Buccaneer than she had intended, rolled over into him with her cheek resting on the firmness of his chest. Her arm had been draped across so that her fingers could tangle in the weave of his braid. On his part, he'd turned in her direction and his big hand was flush against the small of her back to keep her close. Their legs had been intertwined. They'd fallen asleep on top of the blanket, but she had awoken bleary and warm in his grasp — and gently removed herself from it before he stirred.

Her dreams of the Sun and the Moon had played themselves over again last night, with Kimblee whispering away.

"Look straight at the people you kill, don't take your eyes off them for a second."

"Your grandmother lived out of the way, too," Buccaneer commented, then grimaced as the car hit another bump and he ricocheted off the ceiling.

"It had been her parents' home, and then hers, and then my parents," she said, a fond smile cross her lips as she avoided his eyes, her fingers curling. The memory that crossed her mind wasn't that of her parents themselves, but how she had exacted revenge. The image of Scar bound to her table would delight and warm her for the rest of her life when no one else could.

"It could be your home, too."

She could feel his gaze on her.

"It could," she agreed, "but I don't want to spend my life with Ed coming back every month just because he can't stay out of trouble."

He knew she was jesting. But she knew there was no reason she couldn't. She was a different person in Amestris than she was here, and — for what she had been through — she liked the person she was here more. For the second time in a matter of hours, she wondered how differently things would have gone...

If she had shot Scar the first time she met him.

If she had just made Ed deal with the repercussions of her killing Scar then and there, instead of how she had let him continue to put her in the position where she had to coexist alongside her parents' murderer.

If she had refused the request to go to Briggs the way she'd originally intended.

If, in her anger at Ed while she was there, she had turned to Buccaneer instead of Kimblee.

And, for a moment, without her bidding or permission, the image came to mind of what it would have been like if she'd done the latter. She might have been a soldier's wife, living in a quaint home in North City — in a house not too dissimilar from this, with a workshop attached where she could have had her automail business. Or maybe she'd have stayed at the base, and worked on automail for the soldiers there. At night they'd have slept in a bed warm with furs and each other's bodies for those small hours when the fire had banked to an ember.

The car met another bump, and she was all but tossed into his lap. Neither of them spoke as she disentangled herself and slid back into the narrow space she had for herself as the taxi rounded the corner, and the house came into sight.

Though it was the workshop that she actually saw first.

There was a small storefront; a window and door, with a mounted sign. There was a stone path leading to its door, but it split and the second path led to the door in back — the entrance to the home. The roof tiling was shingles and tar, but the last owner had laid thatching over it as well. The building itself was stone, comprised of silver-grey rocks that had been concreted together. With regard to the workshop, this was perfect — a lower chance of the building catching fire if something went awry while she was welding.

Buccaneer crossed his arms as he got out of the car, surveying it in his serious silence. She knew he disliked this development — it meant she was staying. That she was putting down roots here. That it would be no easy process to convince her to go back to Amestris with him.

She didn't want to be convinced anyway.

"It suits you," he admitted grudgingly as the truck drove up on the grass, close to the building. The driver and his cohort hopped out.

"You just tell us where it's going."

Two hours later the truck was empty. She'd bought a mattress and that laid on the floor of the room she intended to be hers, but she was most focused on setting up her workshop. It smelled vaguely of black tea. Though one armed, Buccaneer proved to be a sufficient assistant. He was easy to work alongside. Once the necessities of the room were laid out, she pointed him to the exam chair.

"Sit."

Buccaneer did as she bid with surprising compliance, putting his severed arm on the rest for her to evaluate. Winry tied her hair back and leaned in close, taking a flashlight from her table and turning it on, studying the prosthetic then looking at the other half, laid out on a table.

"A clean break," she said. "It should be a simple weld with regard to the exterior. The interior I'll have to replace the wiring, and a few gears were damaged with the cut. The most problematic piece is going to be—"

"I don't want the same arm." Her eyes flickered up to him, confused. "I want one of those Rockbell custom pieces."

"I can do that," she said, trying not to stammer over her own words as she turned off the flashlight. "I don't know your timeframe to return to Briggs, but I can charge the rush fees to the military."

"I'm in no rush."

Winry's head bobbed up and down.

"I should be able to have it done in about a week then. Maybe more though since I'd need to unpack some more of my fabricating equipment. In the meantime, I have a spare arm in one of these crates you can wear. It won't be the right size, but it'll give you more mobility."

"Sounds good," Buccaneer rumbled. "Let's do it."

Buccaneer left to change into one of his sleeveless undershirts, and she turned to the crates scattered around her workshop. There was a curtain covering the window that faced the forest behind the house, and she crossed to push it aside and let more light shine inside the room. Dust sifted down on her, sparkling in the sunlight, and Winry stumbled away from the window as fast as her feet would let her, putting her hand over her chest. In the beautiful stained glass window, a thousand pieces of yellows, reds, and blues, was a Sun and Moon.