The Same Coin

The Price It Would Cost

For years Ed had been the pinnacle of her automail creativity. He had forced her to rethink design after design, developing new parts and pieces specifically for him. But with Buccaneer committed to forsaking his — wistful sigh — M19 Mad Bear prosthetic, she found herself again sketching design after design and finding nothing worthy enough to be its successor. Self-doubt and cups of coffee fueled her through the hours of scratching away at paper. How could she, an automailer from a small town in the southeast, build something better than the M19?

She slept in her workshop that night, with the windowcast of the Sun and the Moon rippling across her face. Her dream was no longer the comfort it had been; it was uneasy and agitated. Kimblee's voice was urgent. She could feel the weight of hands on her shoulders, his nails digging in and the lines of his tattoos burning through the well-worn linen of her shirt.

Buccaneer found her bent over the quenching vat when he entered the workshop the next morning, carrying a plate for her with him. He didn't speak; there was a moment of eye contact, and he set the plate aside on a table then made himself comfortable on a crate to watch. She worked through the day, cutting and grinding, moving to the bending machine. It would be a lie if she said she'd worked with proportions like these before. Building Buccaneer's arm was closer in circumference to building a man's leg. She saw now why his arm had been fully modified and specially crafted; no off-the-shelf model could have fit him. His prolonged presence made it easier for her in some ways, whenever she worried she'd somehow written numbers reversed he was there for her to remeasure without a word.

He left once when someone arrived at the house, and it might have made her laugh to see his confusion when they explained they were there to connect the television as well as the computer. Instead she remained engrossed in her world of carbon fiber and aluminum. She refashioned the connector from the severed end so that he would still be able to connect his other M19 extensions to it as he pleased. The diamond-tipped claws she also recycled into the new model, unwilling to surrender what was arguably her favorite feature and had certainly cost him a fortune. The sunshine gleaming through the stained glass window faded, and moonlight streamed in to take its place. Buccaneer exchanged her untouched plate of food for another, but she didn't notice that either as she worked, surrounded by the bright standing lights of her shop. When that plate went ignored as well, he exchanged it for bringing coffee instead.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, and maybe it had been, she didn't dream of the eclipse. Kimblee's velvet words didn't creep down her spine. Later — much later, long enough that there was nothing she could do — she'd realize her head was clearer, and that a knot in her chest had lessened. Had she realized it sooner then maybe she wouldn't have made the decisions she would in the coming days. Maybe when Buccaneer asked her that question, her answer would've been different. Instead her thoughts were shorter; shallow. Nostalgia of remembering how Ed would be over her shoulder while she tried to work, a stark contrast to Buccaneer's quiet observation. Ed hadn't ever brought her coffee either, and it would've done wonders to keep him in her good graces during those all nighters working on his automail. Working with Buccaneer's company was quiet and pleasant.

She had to form several of the springs herself; none of the springs included with any of her crates would have worked for the sheer size his automail needed to be, and she'd severed his. She was able to transfer the pneumatic actuators from the old arm, fortunately, because once she saw them she realized they had been custom-built, too. It would've taken her days more of work to make those, while the springs had been comparatively a short project.

At the end of the second night, sleep overcame her — and her dream jarred her awake, the comfort in it shattered. Winry inhaled a trembling breath as she awakened, glancing around the dark room in quiet confusion before realizing Buccaneer must have moved her to her bed. She found the shower, then dressed and returned downstairs to her workshop, and she didn't leave again until the arm was finished.