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scriveynerTitle: Bound By Iron
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
AU: Reverse'verse
Characters/Pairing: Ed
Rating: T
Length: 728
Summary: Dalton was up to something.
There was a weight room on base - soldiers are expected to keep in shape, after all, even if it’s not something as strictly enforced as it should be. Losing his sparring partner really hurt, and Edward spent as much downtime as he could spare in the weight room. He rarely made an appearance if there were others there, but like most things on the base there was no curfew observed. If he could schlep himself out of bed in the morning he might go before work and take advantage of the abundance of hot water in the showers to rinse off, but he mostly utilized the weights room in the evening, after everyone but the PFCs on guard duty and the overnight shift were gone.
It was cathartic, destroying the sandbags, although even then he had to pull his punches lest the jointed automail tear through the canvas with the force of his punches. He hated himself for the thought, but if there was one thing he missed about Alphonse’s armor, it was the fact that he never once had to pull a punch when sparring. It was the one time he could go all-out and at worse only injure himself.
He couldn’t always get down to the weight room to unleash - in fact as his work piled up it became more of a luxury than a necessity. He was a desk worker now, for the most part - and he simply couldn’t afford the time to go beat the punching bag until it was twisted up funny and half-embedded in the wall.
Edward flexed his left hand - he could flex the right one as well, but at this point the extraneous movement was silly at best. He knew the limits of his false limb better than anyone (with the exception of his mechanic, who would make that point every time he saw her), and when he was alone there was little need to pretend with the little human nuances such as constant movement. Some kind soul had repaired the punching bag yet again, stitching it and filling it again after meticulously picking the bits up from the pile Edward had somewhat guilty swept together after his last session. He could have transmuted it himself of course, but that would, first off, let everyone know that he was the guilty party and secondly, no one here appreciated the curving dragon’s head hook he had added to the ceiling. Edward hmphed to himself, putting both hands on the bag to steady it, not even breathing hard.
He was barely twenty-five, and probably in the best shape out of anyone on this base and he already felt like he was going to pot. Running around the country on his own two legs and getting into more scrapes than the average soldier would see in their entire military career before the age of fifteen set rather a high bar for the rest of his life. He tried not to stew on it and instead focus on working up a good solid sweat.
On top of just the general frustration of the job there was also the stewing in his mind about the State Alchemist that had been assigned to his unit. Acting-Fuhrer Dalton was smarmy smart-ass who was far too fond of baiting Edward as mildly as possible (not that that didn’t remind him of someone else he knew, but that was a wound that he didn’t want to tear open anytime soon), but there had to be an ulterior motive to assigning the kid to his unit. He had been intending on tearing someone a new one about letting fucking kids take the State Alchemist’s exam - but despite everything, the military still loved its human weapons, especially those who had perfected such a brilliant weaponized alchemy.
But it just had to be that kid.
Edward felt the joint of his automail catch on one of the stitched-together bits of canvas and he yanked his hand back, but the damage was already done. He stared at the growing pile of sand at his feet and exhaled, letting his fists drop to his sides.
Dalton was up to something.
The trouble was, Edward had no idea what.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
AU: Reverse'verse
Characters/Pairing: Ed
Rating: T
Length: 728
Summary: Dalton was up to something.
There was a weight room on base - soldiers are expected to keep in shape, after all, even if it’s not something as strictly enforced as it should be. Losing his sparring partner really hurt, and Edward spent as much downtime as he could spare in the weight room. He rarely made an appearance if there were others there, but like most things on the base there was no curfew observed. If he could schlep himself out of bed in the morning he might go before work and take advantage of the abundance of hot water in the showers to rinse off, but he mostly utilized the weights room in the evening, after everyone but the PFCs on guard duty and the overnight shift were gone.
It was cathartic, destroying the sandbags, although even then he had to pull his punches lest the jointed automail tear through the canvas with the force of his punches. He hated himself for the thought, but if there was one thing he missed about Alphonse’s armor, it was the fact that he never once had to pull a punch when sparring. It was the one time he could go all-out and at worse only injure himself.
He couldn’t always get down to the weight room to unleash - in fact as his work piled up it became more of a luxury than a necessity. He was a desk worker now, for the most part - and he simply couldn’t afford the time to go beat the punching bag until it was twisted up funny and half-embedded in the wall.
Edward flexed his left hand - he could flex the right one as well, but at this point the extraneous movement was silly at best. He knew the limits of his false limb better than anyone (with the exception of his mechanic, who would make that point every time he saw her), and when he was alone there was little need to pretend with the little human nuances such as constant movement. Some kind soul had repaired the punching bag yet again, stitching it and filling it again after meticulously picking the bits up from the pile Edward had somewhat guilty swept together after his last session. He could have transmuted it himself of course, but that would, first off, let everyone know that he was the guilty party and secondly, no one here appreciated the curving dragon’s head hook he had added to the ceiling. Edward hmphed to himself, putting both hands on the bag to steady it, not even breathing hard.
He was barely twenty-five, and probably in the best shape out of anyone on this base and he already felt like he was going to pot. Running around the country on his own two legs and getting into more scrapes than the average soldier would see in their entire military career before the age of fifteen set rather a high bar for the rest of his life. He tried not to stew on it and instead focus on working up a good solid sweat.
On top of just the general frustration of the job there was also the stewing in his mind about the State Alchemist that had been assigned to his unit. Acting-Fuhrer Dalton was smarmy smart-ass who was far too fond of baiting Edward as mildly as possible (not that that didn’t remind him of someone else he knew, but that was a wound that he didn’t want to tear open anytime soon), but there had to be an ulterior motive to assigning the kid to his unit. He had been intending on tearing someone a new one about letting fucking kids take the State Alchemist’s exam - but despite everything, the military still loved its human weapons, especially those who had perfected such a brilliant weaponized alchemy.
But it just had to be that kid.
Edward felt the joint of his automail catch on one of the stitched-together bits of canvas and he yanked his hand back, but the damage was already done. He stared at the growing pile of sand at his feet and exhaled, letting his fists drop to his sides.
Dalton was up to something.
The trouble was, Edward had no idea what.
