Heavy Metal Madonna

Chapter 3: Pain and Suffering

A/N: Hi guys. It's been way too long, I know. But I do have an excuse, whatever you might think. My laptop (with all of this story on it) decided to die, and I've had to reconstruct the parts that I have so far. As a reward for being so patient, I have an extra-long and wonderful chapter for you. Unfortunately, because I don't have Chapter 4 anymore, I can't put a preview at the end of this installment. So please just be patient a bit more, and I'll have that one out to you soon enough.

--

Pinako dabbed at Winry’s forehead with a towel. It had been nearly ten hours, now. Her feet had gone numb long since, and her back felt like it would begin to spasm soon. “Winry, dear, maybe you should rest.” The younger woman merely grunted. It was almost over. She couldn’t stop now. Winry said this, and Pinako snapped, “You’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours. If you don’t rest—“

“Just back off, will you?” Winry ground out, trying to keep her cool. There were times when her grandmother really got on her nerves. And right now, she wasn’t all that sure she had any nerves left to get on. Yes, she was frayed and worn, but all she had to do was look at the other end of the table, where she couldn’t quite see Jean’s head, and suddenly, there was a new rush of determination. She felt as if for just a few more minutes, she could stand the pain in her back, the lack of feeling in her feet. The elder Rockbell did as she was asked, and let her granddaughter be, for which Winry was grateful. Now that she was certain that her work would remain uninterrupted, she could finish up attaching the nerves to the port in the prosthetic vertebra.

Once that was finished, all that would remain would be to attach the round screw-on access port. This was by far the most invasive, risky procedure Winry had ever performed, but she kept that thought far from her mind. The last thing she wanted was for her fears and insecurities to screw up Jean’s chances of walking again. “Hand me the small rubber-tipped forceps,” she said in a curt, somewhat irritated tone, “I need to grip the fiber cable better. It keeps slipping.”

“Here.” Her grandmother stood off to her left, and moved the pair of forceps into Winry’s line of vision. The younger mechanic took them, and Pinako added, “Try holding it further away from the connector.
Yes, Just after where the nerve is.” They heard a satisfying snick as the cable slid home, directly into the slot it was made to fit into. Winry smiled. One more to go, and they they could seal him up.

It took a full fifteen minutes to attach the last cable, primarily because Winry’s hand was at the wrong angle. For a minute or two, she thought that the hole hadn’t been machined large enough, and that she’d have to bore it out in place. After a tense few moments, and Pinako actually feeling around with her tiny gloved fingers, the elderly woman helped guide Winry’s movements. Finally, when the surgery was nearing its twelve hour mark, Winry put down her forceps and screwed down the casing on the vertebra. In a matter of moments, the access hatch was on, and they were cleaning the outside of the wound.

A deep breath later, Winry said, “It’s done.” It was tough to believe. She looked at the skin around the round access hatch, still brown where they had swabbed it with betadine. “Okay,” Winry said, putting down the power driver. “Let’s test the nerve output.” Pinako started to protest again, saying that it could wait until morning, and that above all, she needed to sleep. Winry had just this one fight left in her, it seemed, in spite of the waves of fatigue that were breaking over her with nearly overwhelming force. “I just need to know. I have to. What if it didn’t work, Granny? I have to prepare myself. What am I going to tell him?” Winry blinked hard, trying to clear tears away.

Pinako seemed to understand, her long experience in the field certainly a contributing factor. The old woman picked up a long needle. “It’s an old test,” she said, “but the best one there is.” The needle was placed firmly between Winry’s fingers. “You know how to do this, right?” Waving off her grandmother, Winry moved to the rear of the table again. Pulling back the drape, she considered which foot to use. Havoc was right handed, so that probably meant he was right-foot dominant. She’d try the right foot.

Though she did not usually use this particular method, Winry was aware of its benefits. But she was also aware that it was annoying if you didn’t hit the right nerves. Luckily, she had studied the nerves of the human foot extensively. The needle went into the flesh of Jean’s foot in precisely the correct spot, but nothing happened. “Oh, God…” Winry felt as if she were going to vomit. It hadn’t worked. “I…I…”

“Try again,” Pinako said, her voice sounding unusually intense. Her small eyes were blazing behind her glasses, and Winry looked at her questioningly. “Sometimes the nerves take a minute or two to remember what feeling is like.”

Swallowing hard, she pricked his foot again. Still nothing. Panic was taking hold now.

“Again.”

This time, Winry’s hand shook when she jabbed at the sole of Jean’s foot. She prayed harder than she had for anyone except for Ed. Prayed that his foot would twitch, jump, that it would do anything other than lay there like it had been. What she had not expected was when his foot leaped up from the table, nearly kicking her chin. Her reflexes were less than they should have been, so she was unable to catch
it, and the leg just flopped back down onto the table. “Holy shit!” she said in belated surprise. Pinako started laughing, but Winry didn’t care. “It worked!” she yelled loudly, sure that the whole town could hear, and not caring one bit. Let them hear. She had just done the impossible. Winry Alice Rockbell had given Jean Havoc back his legs.

--

The morning after the surgery was Hell on Earth. Jean was glad he couldn’t lay on anything but his stomach, because if anyone tried to put him onto his back at the moment, he’d have to find a way to strangle them with his IV tube. It hurt, to say the least, when he tried to move his arms. He turned his head the wrong way, and a spike of pain tore up his spine. Right then, he wanted to kill Winry. She’d cut him open, ripped out one of his backbones, and shoved more metal into him than was otherwise healthy. And it fucking hurt, damn it!

“God damn it…” he growled, “I need a fucking cigarette.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t have one?” Jean craned his neck to the side, and saw Winry. She was standing in the doorway, her hair in complete disarray, wearing her knee-length nightgown. There was sleep in the corners of her eyes, and she was scratching at her stomach, not unlike Ed did at times. Jean’s anger melted away, because even right out of bed in the morning, she looked beautiful. Had he not been in massive amounts of pain, he would have smacked himself for thinking that.

Winry walked further into the room, and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. She stopped just at the foot of his bed and asked, “How are you feeling?”

Shrugging minimally, Jean replied, “Like someone shoved a couple pounds of titanium alloy up my back. You know, nothing unusual.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, and he saw Winry smile slightly at the comment. Her eyes strayed to where the coverlet was pulled over the base of his spine, and he couldn’t tell if she looked worried or exasperated. After a moment, he settled on worried, and lay his face on the pillow again, trying to reassure her. “It’s okay if it didn’t work, you know.” From the corner of his eye, Jean could see her look at his face again. “It was a long shot, and I knew it. So if it didn’t work, I’m fine with that.”

He heard her footsteps approach, and the scrape of a chair. Winry sat down near his head, her face unreadable. She pushed his hair back from his eyes. “You need a haircut.” Jean didn’t know what to think of that. He supposed that his hair was a bit longer than it should be, but what did that have to do with anything? Not that it mattered, because he was enjoying the way she was measuring the length of his hair, her fingers threading into his bangs and drawing them out to the ends.

“M-hm,” he hummed, willing to agree to just about anything if she’d keep doing what she was doing. Her fingers slid into his hair again and again, and it wasn’t long before his eyes started to close. It was very soothing, and her hands were warm. He was almost asleep when he heard her speak again.

“So why not see if you moping is really necessary?” Jean’s eyes opened wide, and he was more awake than he had been in a long time. A noise of surprise came out of his mouth, and Winry smiled again. Now it was his turn to be reassured as she said, “No time like the present,” before standing up and moving out of his line of vision. The flapping of fabric filled the room as the covers pulled back from him, and then he heard her say, “Are you ticklish?” That was all the warning he got before the most maddening feeling came over him, like little sadistic pixies dancing over the sole of his foot, and he yanked away from—

Yanked his foot…

Jean froze. It took a full thirty seconds to actually process what had just happened. And that was when, regardless of the pain in his back, he twisted around to look at Winry. She practically glowed with a combination of triumph, joy and laughter at his expense. His mouth hung open, unable to believe it. “It…worked?” he stammered, and got a low chuckle for his question.

Winry covered him up again, and then went back to where his head now lay. “Yes,” she said in a half-mocking tone, “It did.” He watched her sit down again, and she leaned toward him. Winry’s forehead came to rest against his. “Thank you,” she said in a whisper, “Thank you for letting me do this.” His brain must have broken worse than he thought, because just the smell of her was making him dizzy. She was too close. This was becoming dangerous.

As if to prove that point, Jean’s voice came without his consent. “You know,” he heard himself say, “I could kiss you. I’ll probably be cursing your name later on when you make me move…but right now, even though it hurts…” Jean slid his arm out from beneath the covers, bending it just enough to let his fingertips brush over her cheek. “I really could kiss you.”

He felt, rather than saw Winry stiffen. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jean.”

His lips drew up into a crooked smile. “When is it ever a good idea? Humor me.” When Jean Havoc decided to do something stupid, he didn’t do it by halves. If he was going to make an ass of himself, he did it all the way. That’s why he didn’t wait for her to answer. He moved his hand a bit more, his fingers sliding into her hair, and tilted his face. Her lips were as warm as her fingers, and much softer. What surprised him most, more than the softness and warmth of her mouth, was the fact that Winry did not pull away.

Finally, after what seemed to be a several minutes, he released her, and lay his head back down on the pillow. Winry cleared her throat and stood quickly. “I have to make breakfast…yeah…I’ll make bacon and eggs. Or did you want something else?” Her face had turned slightly pink, and she seemed embarrassed.

Jean swallowed around a lump that had started to form in his throat. “I’ll eat whatever you cook.” Winry nodded, smiling nervously, and left the room. He stared at the open door. Was it a good sign that she was as freaked out about this as he was?

--

Winry stood in front of the stove, watching the bacon sizzle in the pan. To say that she was distracted would be a grave understatement. How could she be otherwise? For ten years, she’d been apprenticed to some of the finest auto-mail mechanics in the world, and she’d laughed and cried with her patients. There had been hugs, arguments, and fights. Never, in all of her experience, had any of them kissed her. For that matter, neither had anyone else. She’d always thought that her first kiss would be…well, for the longest time, she’d thought it would be with Ed. Now, she knew that it was impossible for that to happen. But Winry did not have time to go out and find herself a man.

Therefore, thoughts of her first kiss, and with whom it may occur had slipped farther and farther from her mind. And now, there was this man. He was a patient, and a friend of Ed’s. She’d met his mother. Jean Havoc was an acquaintance, maybe a friend…or something else. She knew him to be understanding, gentle, and not without a sense of humor. “Winry!”

Blinking rapidly, Winry snapped out of her thoughts just in time to see her grandmother waving her hands at the stove. “Will you get your head out of your ass, child? You’re going to burn breakfast!” She looked back at the pan, and saw some extremely crispy bacon that was indeed on the verge of being burnt.

“Sorry, Granny…” she muttered as she picked up the spatula, putting the slices onto a plate. “I’ll eat those…” Winry did not see her grandmother looking at her in a suspicious way, nor did she notice the smile that grew around the pipe clenched in Pinako’s teeth.

--

In six weeks, the wound around the port was completely healed, and with no sign of infection. Jean was able to sit up, joining them at the dinner table once again. He did small exercises, like jiggling his feet, on his own, along with flexing muscles from the small of his back down to his toes in sequence. Once Winry was satisfied with the amount of progress he’d made in rebuilding his muscle tissues, she decided to begin the more aggressive physical therapy.

Strength training had been the second stage. It had been easy at first. Jean’s legs had surprisingly little atrophy, and that made her job much easier. What was hard was the next step: a combination of strength training and flexibility exercises. Every day, a few hours after lunch, Winry would wheel him into the therapy room. He’d come to hate that table. She would help him get up onto the thing—Jean could stand now for short periods—and then proceed to torture him. Pain was the least of his worries. He could take pain. It was the absolute agony of the way she had to use her body weight to stretch his back, hip joints and legs. One stretch in particular was difficult, because she had to climb up onto the table, lift his leg into the air, and press the length of her body against the back of it, pushing toward his chest.

When she did that, Jean started imagining things…things that made him feel like a very dirty old man. Her body was extremely warm, and one breast would press against the back of his calf, while she practically straddled the back of his thigh. Which, of course, was precisely what she was doing at the moment. Today was worse than before. He had accidentally wheeled himself past the bathroom while she was changing, and the door was slightly ajar. Things that were now pressed against him had been visible then, and it was causing him to be very uncomfortable, indeed.

He shifted slightly, trying to keep her from brushing against his crotch. Again. “Keep still, Jean.”

If this got any more awkward, he’d just go into the kitchen and slit his throat. He hadn’t had to worry about this for so long, it had just slipped his mind, really. Not that he had not thought about it before, but Winry had not been rubbing against his groin before. And Jean knew he was going to go straight to Hell, because damn did that feel good. She settled more of her body weight onto him, and the stretch took in part of his back, as well. Grunting, he shifted again. It did no good, because Winry’s free hand moved to his hip, pushing it back in place. “I told you to keep still…”

A few seconds later, his leg was released, only a temporary respite, for she began the torture anew on his other leg. It took a full twenty minutes to finish this part of his therapy, what with as much as he was squirming. At the end of that time, Winry let his abused appendage fall to the table, and then began to climb down to the floor after proclaiming that she’d hurt him enough for one day. Unfortunately, gravity decided that it was not her friend. Her knee slipped, and she went sprawling, landing directly atop Jean.

“Um…” she stammered, “…Sorry. Can you let me go?” It took a second or two to realize that he had caught her, and was holding her against his chest. Letting go somehow seemed like a terrible idea. He rather liked the way she felt against him, in spite of the aura of awkwardness that seemed to grow stronger with each moment. He was smiling before long, and decided that he should keep her there by any means necessary.

Jean feigned contemplation for a second or two before his hands shifted slightly from their protective position at her shoulder blades to her sides. Without warning, and mercy of any kind, Jean dug in his fingers, and began tickling her. Winry gasped, wriggling frantically; the only thing keeping her from falling off of the table was his grip.

“Stop!” She pleaded laughingly, “I...hahaha! Stop it, Jean!” Winry was now clutching at his shirt front, and he could feel her chest heaving against his. The skin beneath his fingertips was soft, but there was muscle beneath that came from hauling and working steel. Again, as if for the millionth time, he inhaled the smell of her. It was the same as always, flowers and mechanical oils, with maybe a hint of something else that he couldn't identify. When he allowed his hands to simply rest on her sides, rather than nearly making her wet herself, Winry collapsed, unable to move.

Jean smiled. Her breath came out in little pants, warm even through the cotton of his t-shirt. She was still gripping handfuls of his shirt, although her hold was loosening. The heartbeat he felt against his chest was rapid, and he could not help but enjoy that it had been him that made it pump so fast. Winry let go of his shirt with one hand to smack him weakly on the chest. “Ass,” she grumped, still out of breath, “I told you to let me go.”

She wasn't looking at him, so she she didn't see when he grinned madly. Jean did his best to sound like a pouting child as he replied, “But I didn't want to...” His right hand left its position at the small of her back, trailing fingertips along her spine. He felt her shiver. “I still don't want to.” He could feel her begin to tense up, and it felt as if she were going to say something, but she never got to.

There was a cough from the doorway, and they both turned to find a very amused Pinako standing there and watching them. She grinned around the metal end of her pipe. “My, my,” said the elderly woman, “isn’t that interesting…” Leaning her small form against the jamb, she gave a short chuckle and said, “Once you’ve finished molesting your patient, dear, would you mind getting started with supper?…” With that, the small woman was gone, leaving Jean a bit flabbergasted, and Winry so embarrassed that she buried her face in his chest.

“Aaaaargh...” he heard her growl against his chest. Winry lifted her head, glaring at him. “This is all your fault!” She poked him in the chest, her fingernail jabbing him hard. Jean tried his best to look innocent. Her eyes narrowed. “Don't you go trying to give me that look. I know you did it on purpose.”

A sly smile passed over his face then, and he reminded himself a bit too much of the General as he said, “And what if I did?” Winry's mouth fell open, and she was momentarily stunned into silence. Jean began to sit up, forcing her to do the same. He hoped that she was angry enough not to notice that she was straddling his lap. “It isn't every day that I have a beautiful woman laying on top of me, you know.” Winry, whose blush had begun to fade, now went even redder than before.

“Jean...” she said weakly, “You shouldn't--”

--

She was trying to say that he shouldn't think that way. It was hard maintaining that patient-mechanic relationship when he did things like this. The difficulty arose perhaps because of the fact that she could not forget the way he had kissed her so tenderly, though he was in great pain. Or, it might be the way his calloused hands held her gently even now. Then again, it could have something to do with the hard bulge she sat on. Her blush grew deeper as she tried not to think about that, even as he shushed her.

“You don't have to tell me I shouldn't. It's probably a real bad idea...” His face inched closer, and her heart started beating harder in her chest.

“If it's such a bad idea,” Winry asked sarcastically, “why are you--” Her words cut off as his lips collided with hers. Again. She wanted to protest, to push away, but Jean held her close, his lips patient and slow in their movements as he kissed her. Even as she told herself to stop this, Winry could not stop the way her body was reacting. Heat began to awaken in her stomach, uncurling like a lazily stretching cat. His lips parted, and she felt his tongue sweep over the seam of her own lips. That small contact forced a sigh from her, and his tongue dipped into her mouth. Winry shivered slightly in response, rather enjoying the way it felt.

This process repeated for nearly a full minute, after which Jean pulled back, leaving her short of breath. His face was still so close, she could feel his breath against her mouth. “I don't care if it's a bad idea,” he said softly before his hands fell away from where they had been resting at her waist. He was no longer looking at her when he said, “I can't get you out of my head.” Jean sounded sullen, as if he were upset by what he had just said. Winry had to try very hard not to turn ten shades of red and run away.

God knew she wanted to. She'd never been in this kind of situation before. There was nothing she could possibly say in response to that. Good sense told her that it would be best to simply get up and walk out of the room after telling him that she could not do this with him. She should get away from him while she still could. But...she just couldn't make her mouth say the words, and certainly could not push him away.

Winry could not understand what was happening, but she knew that it would only make things more difficult later on. They had to work together on his therapy, and this was not going to help things. She wanted to say that out loud, but he had already told her that he knew. So what else could she do? Technically speaking, she could tell him to stop, not to touch her...that she didn't like it. But that would be a lie.

Her internal conflict was interrupted by Jean's miserable voice. “This is the part where you slap me, you know.”

She blinked helplessly, stunned by his words. “Slap you?” she blurted, “Why would I do that?”

Jean still wasn't looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the floor to her right, on the side of the table near the window. “I've kissed women that didn't want me to. That's generally what happens.”

Still taken aback, Winry said wonderingly, “How could anyone do that to you?” But it was clear from the expression he now wore that it had happened more than once. She supposed that it was bruising to a man's pride to be slapped for showing affection when he obviously thought it would be returned in kind. But to slap him? What would motivate anyone lay a hand on Jean Havoc? He was probably the most honest guy she knew, and he was very kind. Infuriating at times, yes, but he had done nothing to deserve being struck with violence.

“I'm not going to hit you,” she said softly, thinking it a bit odd that her tone was quite as low as it was. “I'd never slap you for that.” Not to mention that she was still rather unclear on whether she had actually wanted him to kiss her...but she wouldn't say that aloud. Winry did not allow his mind to process that. She slid off of him and the table. “Let's get you into the chair again. Granny is going to get pissed if I don't start with supper.”

--

It was well past midnight, and the Rockbell residence was silent. Darkness filled the house, and it seemed that even the mice in the walls were asleep. The only sounds in Winry's room were her own breathing and the steady tick-tick-ticking of her bedside clock. She glanced at it. From the dim glow of moonlight, she could read the hands. Nearly one o'clock in the morning, and she still could not sleep. All that was going through her head was that kiss, and the feelings it had stirred up.

Usually, Winry knew what she believed. She knew what was right, and what was wrong. But this was different. Unlike with anything that had to do with Edward, this was not a life or death situation. The only thing at stake was her sanity. Because right then, she knew that she was going nuts. How else could she explain why she was getting out of bed, and tiptoeing down the stairs?

The hall was just as quiet as the rest of the house. Pinako's door was shut, though her snores could be heard easily if one were close enough. Regardless, Winry made sure that her footfalls made no sound. She had learned how to do that from Ed once, and it had come in handy a few times. Jean's room was at the end of the hallway, and there was a small crack in the door. It had been that way since she'd put him to bed, just in case he needed to go to the kitchen or the bathroom.

Winry neared the door, and was about to push it open when a soft sound caught her attention. It was almost like a whimper, but it was too low in pitch. Curious, she crept forward slowly, silently, holding her breath. Through the small opening, Winry was able to see most of the room. The moonlight, though dim, did illuminate the bed, as well as the night table.

Jean was in bed, propped up on pillows just as he usually was, the light from the window casting his face in harsh relief. He slept in his shorts and a sleeveless shirt, a bit of his chest visible. His left leg twitched, toes curling before they unbent. Winry watched him with rapt attention. That movement, however small, was a miracle. My miracle, she thought. He's my miracle...

Warmth grew in her stomach at that thought, even as the possessiveness of its tone startled her. It was wrong to think in such a way about Jean, but she was no more able to stop it than she could a freight train. His right hand rose to scratch at the middle of his chest, and a small sound left his mouth. Winry smiled. She turned away from the door. He was sleeping well, so she should try to do the same.

“Winry...”

Her heart stopped, even as she took a step from the door to his room, and her thoughts raced. Had he seen her? Heard her? She hadn't made any noise! But when she looked through the crack in the door, Jean was still soundly asleep. Winry's heart started up again, pumping blood at high rate of speed. It pounded so fiercely that she nearly swooned. Jean's eyes were still closed, and he appeared to be asleep as she gripped the door frame. A crease between his eyebrows began to form, and he gave a groan.

“Winry...”

His tone was odd, almost as if he were in pain. But that couldn't be right. Slowly, she pushed the door open. If he was hurting, she would have to wake him up so that she could either make him lie on his side or give him something for his discomfort. Winry did not quite rush into the room, but she wasn't as quiet as she had been. The sound of her feet hitting the hardwood was barely audible, but she could hear it. And if she could, he may be able to, as well. A moment later, she was standing next to his head, watching the distress there grow.

He started whimpering, and she knew then that he was having a nightmare. What was the rule about waking someone up when they were having a bad dream? Wake them slowly? Should she even wake him at all? Winry decided that she must, and slowly lowered her weight onto the mattress near his shoulder. She put a hand on his chest, applying gentle pressure. “Jean...” she said softly, “Jean, wake up.”

The reaction he had was completely unexpected. His eyes flew open, and he inhaled sharply as if in extreme pain. “No!” He yelled, sitting bolt upright and reaching out toward the door. “Not her! God, not her!” Winry jumped up from the bed, frightened by the volume of his voice. He must still have been dreaming, she decided, since his eyes were glassy, and he seemed not to see her. It took her half a second to recover, but when she had, she gripped both of his arms and pushed them down.

“Jean!” Winry said, louder than before, but nowhere near his shout, “Jean, wake up!”

He blinked suddenly, seeming unable to process what was going on. His chest was heaving, and sweat had sprung out onto his skin. When he noticed that his hands were being restrained, he looked at her. She stood over him, still clutching his wrists, but she was not as strong as he was. Jean forced her grip, and pulled Winry into a bone-crushing embrace. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing deeply but erratically. She could feel his body shaking. “Just a dream...only a dream...” she heard him whisper, over and over again.

She felt helpless. What was she supposed to do? He was practically crying into her hair, and if he hugged her any more tightly, she would no longer be able to breathe. Winry did the only thing she could; she put her arms around him, and let one of her hands stroke up and down his back while the other did the same to his hair. “Shhh. It's okay. Everything's fine...”

Long moments passed, and finally, his shaking stopped. Winry could feel his slow, even breathing against her shoulder, and she knew that he was asleep once again. She lowered him to the bed, and stood. As she turned away, he spoke again. “Stay,” he asked softly, almost as if he were asleep. Winry sighed, and lay down next to him, atop the covers.

--

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