Uh. This was just a random introspective I wrote when I was woe'ng the lack of fanfiction with a self-injurous Edward. I realized after writing the last sentance of this that it was kind of out of character for Edward to be in the first place, so that answered my question. :D;
Genre: Gen, introspective, mild angstage.
Word Count: 735
He sat awake in an unfamiliar bed one night after a long day of chasing a lead around in the heat of western Amestris (in the summer no less)—only to find out that the person they were looking for was flat-out insane, and their ‘Philosopher’s Stone’ was a conglomeration of a beverage container, foil, and paint.
Alphonse had decided earlier to go out on a walk tonight rather than sit with Edward while he slept. He'd do that sometimes, and he'd be back as soon as it was dawn, as usual, but the older brother wasn’t too worried about it. Said older brother was busy formulating exactly what he was going to tell Mustang once he got back to report in on all the wonderful new information they acquired about the Philosopher's Stone. Not to mention think really hard on whether it really wasn't worth it to punch him in the face or not.
The wind from an open window across from Ed’s sitting form brushed his bangs lightly against his face, causing him to shudder at the coolness involuntarily. Looking off into the night sky that was slowly becoming clouded, his thoughts drifted as he fingered a joint on his right thumb, occasionally brushing his hand down the length of the grooved metal plate covering his right forearm.
There was an area of the brain that registered where all areas of one’s body were in relation to each other, regardless if you were looking at them or not. One would think that this was something that only applied to flesh and bone, but for some unfathomable reason, Edward never really lost track of his automail limbs. He figured the nerve endings feeding into his automail ports had something to do with it, regardless of lack of sensation in either machine.
Occasionally though, he might bump an artificial limb into something solid. It would then send a shockwave up the appendage to the port, where he would feel a slight strain. Even if this is technically how it worked, after a while, his brain began to automatically translate that slight strain into something more along the lines of feeling in the appendage itself.
As he lived with it, it became more and more a part of his living body.
Sometimes he forgot he had automail, and he hated himself for it.
The automail limbs were merely tools. Tools which he had chosen to acquire with one goal in mind: to gain back everything they had lost. He was repenting for a sin. He was working and obsessing day and night towards a goal; a goal that seemed further out of his reach each step he took toward it. If he were to suddenly feel normal next to his brother who was merely a soul affixed to a suit of cold, unfeeling armor... where was the justice in that?
Turning his attention solely to his automail arm, he began to pick at the ends of the fingertips, wondering idly how thick the metal was there. He always would transmute a blade from the thicker armor over the forearm if needed, but there were really quite a lot of possibilities for what he could do with it.
Touching his palms together, he brought the finger tips of his left hand to match the fingertips of his automail, and experimentally melded the metal outwards about an inch. When the transmutation light faded, he could see in the dim moonlight that he now sported impressive claws on his automail hand... whatever use that might have.
Edward ran a flesh finger over the top of the claw at the tip of his right index finger, searching idly for differentiation in the surfaces or weakness in the metal, but finding none. Drawing his finger back though, the end of the claw lightly brushed across it. Ed only realized this after a shallow cut along the side of his finger seemed to slide open with small drops of blood forming along the short ridge and slowly running together.
He stuck the injured finger in his mouth, only to regret it a second later as he was met with a sharp sting that, oddly enough, turned into a feeling that didn’t feel all that... bad.
Blaming it on hormones and near heat-stroke earlier that day, Edward decided that he was in a really odd mood, and that he probably ought to sleep.