Heavy Metal Madonna

Title: “Heavy Metal Madonna”
Series: FullMetal Alchemist
Date begun: January 23, 2009
Date completed:
Pair: Havoc/Winry

Summary: Winry, wishing to grow stronger and enhance her talent, decides to turn her determination and skill upon a paralyzed soldier. Jean Havoc could not be happier to regain the use of his legs, and looks upon the younger woman as his savior.

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A/N: Crack, you say? That very well might be. However, when I was reading the FMA manga once again, there was a very striking page, that showed two very determined faces. On one side, there was Jean Havoc, and on the other was Winry. They both looked so determined, so…alike…that it was difficult not to draw the parallel that I have. It was also the seed that sprouted the idea for this story. I hope you enjoy it.

Warnings:
FL—Foul Language abound
V—Violence

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“Heavy Metal Madonna”

Chapter 1: Theoretical Connections

“Jean,” he heard from behind him, “I just wanted to come and see how you were doing.” The sound of a familiar feminine voice was always comforting. When he swiveled his wheelchair, he saw one of his childhood friends standing on the other side of the counter. Celia Manheim had always been pretty, but now she seemed to glow. Long blonde hair was swept back from her forehead, and flowed down her back. Bright blue eyes looked across at him as she smiled. There was a basket in one of her hands, and the other rested on her bulging middle.

It had been years since he’d seen her, but now that he was home again, she visited every week. “I’m fine,” he replied, wheeling around the counter toward her. “How’s that little monster doing?” Celia’s smile widened, and he wondered how anyone could look so beautiful.

“Oh, he’s kicking away at all of my internal organs…I brought you something. Fredrick made baked ham last night.” The mention of Celia’s husband dulled Jean’s good mood a little, but then again, Fredrick was a nice guy, so he figured that she had a decent shot at happiness. Not like it would have been had he stayed. Jean had known a long time ago that he was no good for her. That’s why when he was sixteen, he’d joined the army. His mother had been heartbroken, as had Celia. Fredrick Manheim, though, had stayed right where he’d been brought up. And less than two years ago, he’d asked Celia to marry him.

Although he himself had been away, the rest of the Havoc family had attended the wedding. Now, she looked as happy as he’d ever seen her, and that was good enough for him. Smiling at her in return, although he knew it was a little strained, he said, “Thanks, Cel. I…” But then he couldn’t look at her anymore, and covered for it by pretending to look for his cigarettes. After a cursory pat of each pants pocket, he reached for the breast pocket of the button-down shirt he wore, knowing that they’d been there all along. He removed them from his pocket, but did not take one from the pack. Ma Havoc had taught her little boy not to smoke around pregnant ladies, at least.

“I’m really glad you came by, Cel,” he said as he took the basket and laid it across his knees. “It gets kind of…dull around here with just me and Mom.” She nodded, but waved a hand, saying that it was no trouble at all. Even though he knew that it wasn’t, he still felt as if it were a burden to her. He’d begun to feel that way a lot lately, like something lifeless that just weighted down everyone around him. “Um, anyway,” he said after giving a short cough, “Did you want to hang around for a bit? Mom is in the house out back, and she’s always asking after you.”

Celia’s smile became slightly uncomfortable. “I would, Jean, but Fredrick asked me to meet him at the café. Why don’t you two come over for dinner tomorrow?” While Jean now heard at least three voices in the back of his head telling him that he should not, he agreed, and they set dinnertime for seven in the evening. “Tomorrow night then,” she said before leaning down to give him a one-armed hug. With a small wave, she was gone from the shop. That dinner would be pleasant, he knew, but it would be like his own personal Hell, as well.

--

Winry sat at the workbench in her room, fiddling with the old cables from Ed’s arm. He was so rough with the thing that she’d been forced to provide yet another replacement. That, and she’d had to hop a train again to do it. If she didn’t love him as much as she did, then there was no way she would traipse all over the country for him. But for the love of God, did he have to completely destroy the auto-mail she made for him every time? It was never, Hey, Winry, could you come for a visit, and check my auto-mail while you’re here? I’ve missed you for the last six months…Oh no. It was always more like, Hey! Winry…I think I might need you to come and fix my arm. It’s smashed to Hell and back again, and my knee’s out of whack too! Thanks, Bye!

But, like the weak woman that she had turned out to be, she always went. There was a kind of connection she had been unable to break. It was sort of like the kind of connection Ed’s auto-mail arm had with his brain and nerves. A sort of one-sided link that only one of them seemed to draw any kind of benefit from…and that person sure as hell was not Winry. Sure, she got friendship, but she got that from Al, too. Winry had, for a long time, wanted something special with Ed, but she knew—and had perhaps always known— that would not happen.

In fact, she was pretty certain that there was something warm and fuzzy in her friend’s heart for one of the least likely people in the world. The last time she had been in Central City, Winry had replaced part of Ed’s foot, and then observed a test spar between Ed and Al.

“Ms. Rockbell,” a voice from next to her said, and she jumped. Winry looked to the left, and saw the dark eyes and devastatingly handsome face of one Brigadier General Roy Mustang. “Fancy meeting you here.” He settled into a seat next to her, and crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes immediately turning to the two men sparring not far away.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as he followed Ed and Al’s movements. “The new parts seem to be holding up well,” she said, not really knowing what else to say.

“Yes,” Roy said, his voice sounding far away. “But it won’t help him much if he’s fighting Al.”

Frowning, she asked, “You’ve seen them fight before?”

After a short pause, Roy replied, “Several times. Ed is no match for his brother.” A small smile pulled at the corners of the older man’s mouth. “But it’s an excellent excuse for me. I offer to take him out to dinner. It makes him feel better.” Winry felt her cheeks begin to heat, though she was not sure why. Just then, there was a loud thud, and she turned her attention to the practice mat, where Ed was sprawled on his stomach, one arm twisted behind his back, and Al sitting on him with a wide grin plastered over his face.

“Alright, already! I give!” Ed cried, his voice showing just how annoyed he was at losing yet again. When Al had helped him up from the ground, the two young men walked over to where she and Roy sat. “So, I think it works fine, Winry. Thanks a lot for coming all this way.” Before she could reply, he turned to Roy. “And what do you need, General?”

Roy smiled rather unpleasantly. “I just came to watch you get pummeled, Fullmetal.”

“Why, you—“Ed sputtered, but didn’t really get much more than that out, since Roy decided to plow over his words.

“And since you’ve worked up an appetite, maybe you’d like to come with me? I’m going to get some dinner at the pub down the street.”

There was some colorful discussion after that, but in the end, Ed had relented with surprising ease. The feeling in the air at that moment was as a revelation; one which was none too pleasant. He had left Al standing there with Winry, and it was hard to miss the jealousy in Al’s eyes. Winry felt his pain. They were both feeling left out.

Hours later, Winry lay sprawled on her bed, her chin propped up on one hand. She was looking at one of her father’s medical books. This one, an illustrated text on neurology, was actually fascinating. How nerves worked, the way they fed the brain information, and then the way the brain communicated what to do with that data…it all left her feeling as if there was something more. There had to be something more she could do! If there were someone whose arm was intact, and yet they could not use the hand due to nerve damage, would it not make sense to find the damage and repair it?

That sort of thing was well beyond the capabilities of auto-mail. After all, those nerves were so fine that there were no neuro-cables thin enough to replace them. The best an auto-mail mechanic could do was hardwire the nerves of a severed limb into an attachment port. But, she thought idly, If one were to have an injury to the spinal cord…Were something such as that to occur, then a neuro-cable would be the appropriate size. After all, if the spinal cord were severed, it would merely need to be re-connected, right? She rolled over, reaching for the journal she kept on the night-table. This was good stuff. It was something that no one had ever thought of before.

At least, she was pretty sure that no one had ever thought of using auto-mail to re-establish the connection of the spinal cord. She began wondering what it would take…

--

“Mom!” he yelled, “I’m going out!”

From upstairs, he heard her answer, “Not before you close up shop, young man!” Jean very nearly rolled his eyes. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that the woman could tell when he did, even if she was not in the room. She was his mother, after all. In any case, he knew very well that he wouldn’t be going anywhere until he’d counted the money in the register and put it all in the canvas zip-up bank bag to take to the local branch of First Amestrian Bank tomorrow morning.

So Jean Havoc wheeled himself into the front room, where the shop was located. It was nearly dark now, and the store was almost ready to close. The days here were quiet, and lately, business had been a bit slow. The only sound to be heard was the soft scratch of a match being struck. The flame danced just in front of his cigarette, ready to light the end. It flickered suddenly as a bell sounded on the other side of the room, and then the little fire went out, extinguished by a sudden draft. Over one of the shelving units, he saw the front door open.

After flipping the burnt match into the garbage can, he took out another. This time, the fire stayed, flickering delicately as he drew in breath through his cigarette. It looked like there would be one last customer today. Even if they did buy something, Jean figured he could simply put the transaction into the register book and shove that cash into the bag as well, once all was said and done. He took a short pull on his cigarette, and popped open the register drawer. Slow footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor, sounding light and feminine.

He paid attention to counting the money, though, because he’d long since learned that customers don’t like to be bothered. As long as they don’t steal anything or loiter too long in one place, you let them be, and everyone came out happier that way. He was halfway through zipping the bank bag when he heard a memorable voice say, “Those things are bad for your health, First Lieutenant.” Eyes widening, Jean looked up in shock to see perhaps the very last person he’d expected, much closer than her voice made her seem.

Winry Rockbell stood no more than five paces away from the counter; her coat still buttoned up against the chill outside. It must have been three years since he’d last seen her, and he’d be damned if she didn’t look like a lady. Her hair was pulled back from her face, with the exception of a few bits at the temples, and he wondered if maybe she had the biggest blue eyes he’d ever seen. He didn’t really know how Ed had ever been able to tell her ‘no’ with the way those eyes seemed to smile and pout at the same time.

All Jean could really manage was a sound of disbelief. She smiled and continued walking toward him. He gaped like a fish, unable to reply or make any sound at all until his cigarette fell from where it had become stuck to his lower lip. The glowing tip of the burning tobacco landed on his left thigh, and he smelled something burning. Instantly, he looked down to see a hole in his trouser leg, and a reddening patch of skin. Swatting at the thing with his bank bag, he cursed violently.

And then small hands were gently moving his aside, prodding at the newly burned skin and then uncapping a small tube. “You really ought to be more careful,” Winry chided as she rubbed a burn cream onto the wound, “Are you always so careless?”

He still couldn’t say anything. Her head was bent, all her attention seemingly on the task she performed as she knelt in front of his chair. Suddenly—and bizarrely—Jean realized that this was the first time in a long while that a woman had touched him in so intimate a way, and yet he could not feel it. Oh, the irony. It also appeared that some cosmic force was mocking him, since her hands lingered on his leg after she had done with putting on the burn cream. Unsure what it was she might be doing, he asked, “Ms. Rockbell? Is there something I can do for you?”

A snapping sound filled the space as she recapped the cream tube, and then she was looking up at him with that inescapable pair of big blue eyes. “It’s not so much what you can do for me,” she murmured in a low tone, “but what I can do for you.”

Now, Jean thought distantly, why does that sound dirty?

“I’m sorry?” He said, his voice sounding just as unsure as he felt. Winry’s fingers were still on his thigh, though he could not feel them.

“What would you say if I told you that I might be able to make your legs usable again?” She blurted suddenly.

He didn’t know what to say, so for a very long few seconds, Jean said nothing at all. Finally, when he’d swallowed a couple of times to get some moisture back into his mouth, he managed, “Huh?” Great job, dumb ass, he thought to himself, If there was any doubt that you were an idiot before, it’s gone now.

Winry’s eyes took on a very intense light. “Finish what you’re doing, Lieutenant. There’s a little café not far from here that’s sure to be a nicer place to talk.” And then she was on her feet again, moving back to the other side of the counter and looking at him expectantly. If he didn’t know any better, Jean would have thought that she was ordering him around. It wasn’t as if he were unused to it. He wouldn’t have gone into the army if he wanted to act independently for the rest of his life.

“Sure,” he muttered, zipping the pouch and wheeling toward the safe. As he opened it, he looked back at her. She was watching him, that intensity still behind her eyes. What was she thinking? Winry was at least as hard-headed as Ed was, but Jean was getting the feeling that with her, it was worse. The defiant rise of her chin told him that she had a stubborn streak, and the lazy slouch of her shoulders gave the illusion that Winry had all the time in the world. Tossing the bag into the safe, Jean said, “You’re paying.”

Winry’s mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile, “My, aren’t we chivalrous?”

Jean gave the dial on the safe a random spin to the right, and turned the wheelchair around. She was resting her chin on one hand, regarding him with an air of friendly, playful annoyance. “I’ll have you know I’m a perfect gentleman,” he replied, adopting a rather crooked grin. Winry smiled, but looked as if she didn’t believe a word of it. Jean wheeled himself to the door, and held it open for the young woman to exit ahead of him—thus proving that he was, in fact, a gentleman. Once it was firmly locked, they proceeded down the street.

Winry was silent, which he remembered was not common. From what he had seen of her, the girl was decently chatty. What she’d said before brought about all kinds of thoughts. She was an auto-mail mechanic, but from what he’d heard, there was no mechanic alive that could solve the problems caused by a severed spinal cord. He’d looked into it, of course. It had been a few years since he’d contacted anyone on the subject, but he considered himself pretty well in the know for the average layperson.

If it was impossible, like all the other mechanics seemed to believe, then what was Winry talking about back there? It wasn’t like him to brood, though, so he just went along, throwing his considerable upper body strength into keeping up with Winry’s long-legged strides. The café was only a block and a half up the street, and they did not meet anyone on the way.

Ivan, the owner of the small establishment, greeted them once they were inside. They pulled up chairs at a table in a small alcove, and both ordered coffee. Winry surprised him by being quite emphatic about her coffee being black. “And none of that silly flavored stuff, please. It doesn’t make sense if you can’t taste the coffee in your coffee.” Ivan smiled, far from offended. He said that he thought the same thing, and left to fill their cups.

When the man was all the way across the room, Jean fixed her with a questioning look. “Well?” he said, “What’s this about you making my legs work?”

No sooner had he asked this question than he was rendered speechless, yet again. Her face seemed to light up, and she reached into the small satchel she’d been carrying. From within, Winry produced a folder, thick with papers.

--

Winry was trying not to get too excited; not to get too into the explanation of her theory. It was just so hard not to, though! When she would look up at the Lieutenant to see if he understood what she was saying, it was quite a surprise when he actually seemed to get it. “And this port, here…” she said, pointing to one of her many diagrams, “this will be where the connections will go for the smaller nerves. It basically takes the place of the vert that’ll be removed…”

“Whoa…” Havoc said, waving his hand over the paper in a startled manner, his eyes widening in a way that did not bode well. “You’re gonna rip out one of my vertebrae? Like…you mean one of my backbones?!” He was obviously alarmed. Winry attempted to ease his anxiety.

Calmly, she placed her hands on the surface of the table. Winry’s gaze was steady as she began to speak. “First Lieutenant Havoc,” she said in a cool, but not unfriendly tone, “What I mean to do here is to test out something that I know will work. The theory is sound, and unlike many other auto-mail mechanics today, I am willing to do more, to use all of my resources, so that anyone may move around freely again.” Havoc looked at her doubtfully. He did not look like he was buying it at all, and might just leave if she let him. Now Winry was beginning to feel a bit desperate, so she decided to level with him. “I told you earlier that there was nothing you could do for me. Actually, I believe that you will be helping me far more than I could ever possibly repay.”

Havoc leaned back in his wheelchair, looking much more satisfied. “Well,” he said, smiling crookedly at her again, “You’re at least willing to be honest with me. That’s something.” He started fiddling with an unlit cigarette, twirling it over his knuckles. Both of them watched the white and brown stick flip and turn for a few long moments before it stopped, and he looked up at her. “Tell me straight up, Rockbell. What kind of failure rate are we looking at?”

Winry’s mouth went dry at that question. As much as she wanted to say that it would work perfectly, that he had nothing to worry about…Auto-mail operations always carried significant risk. There were those who might bleed out, if they had hemophilia. Some simply could not take the shock of the procedure, and their nerves deteriorate in spite of the medicines. There were occasional infections. And then there were deaths. On top of all those things, the procedure she had on the table here had never been performed before. She bit her lip.

“You keeping quiet like that isn’t really encouraging.” Havoc said darkly, his cigarette starting to move, but faster now as dark brown eyes began collecting doubt once again. She wanted to tell him again that she knew it would work. She wanted so badly to give him back his legs. She wanted…hell, what was it she wanted? Why was she even doing this? Winry knew that this was for herself, just as much as it was for Havoc. Was she really that selfish…or could she make it more about him?

Her mouth started moving, even if she didn’t want it to, saying things that she did not like. “All of these operations are risky. Ed’s leg and arm…those had a 30% chance of failure. I met a girl whose legs were replaced up to the hip, and that’s a 36.8% chance of going right down the tubes. Add to that the rate of infection, miscellaneous medical conditions, and the fact that this has never been done before…I’d say the chance that this could fail is about 50% or more. Can’t say for sure.”

For a long moment, Havoc seemed grim. He stopped twirling his cigarette again, looking at her hard as if searching for something. Then, he spoke, his tone neutral, giving away absolutely nothing. “A 50/50 shot, huh?” Winry nodded. Another long look followed, and she felt strange under his eyes. It was not often that someone measured her this way, seeming to take her apart to see how she might tick, and reassemble her entire being to their satisfaction. That’s what it felt like to have First Lieutenant Jean Havoc look at her. He wasn’t calculating the way General Mustang was, and he wasn’t insanely smart the way Ed was. But there was a kind of wisdom behind his eyes that was born of years spent watching men die from poor judgment, and wishing never to see it again.

How would he see her idea? Would he think it worth the risk?

Suddenly, his hand smacked down on top of the open folder, and Winry jumped, jolted from her thoughts. She blinked, unable to comprehend the big, crooked—almost goofy—grin on the man’s face. “Okay, Miss Rockbell. You’ve got yourself a guinea pig.” Her eyes widened nearly to the point that it was painful, and she almost stopped breathing.

“Really?” was all she could manage to say.

Nodding, Havoc stuck the cigarette behind his ear jauntily. “You betcha,” He said, winking, “But don’t call me First Lieutenant.” Winry looked at him questioningly, and he let his grin fade just a little. “Just call me Jean.” He put out a hand to her, and she took it, giving it a firm shake.

“And you can call me Winry from now on.” She offered a smile before saying, “When should I expect you?”

Jean just smiled again, saying, “Let’s talk about this at my place. Mom makes a damned good pot roast, and that’s what’s on the menu tonight.”