Prompt: Candle, Fever, Hand. Young Winry nurses young Ed through automail surgery. By request.
"Mom?" he whimpered, and the coolness on his forehead slid down to press against his cheek. He understood then that it was the back of the person's hand, when the knuckles brushed over his temple.
"No, Ed, it's me," the soft voice said, and he frowned, running his swollen-feeling tongue over his cracked lips.
"Winry?" Even through the haze in his mind, he could tell that his voice came out sounding very small, and very, very lost.
"Sssh," she whispered, and her hand left his face, only to be replaced a moment later with a rough, soothing dampness that he thought must be a wet cloth.
"Wha -- what happened? What's wrong?" he asked, panicked, as he tried to sit up.
She pushed him back down firmly, but her voice was strained with worry when she spoke. "Just be still, Ed," she commanded. "You're recovering."
"From...what?" He was having trouble catching his breath, and he felt something rising in his stomach.
"Surgery," she explained. "The automail, remember?"
"Oh...yeah..." He could barely force the words out past the tightness of his throat, and his face twisted in distress. She moved quickly, and before he could wonder what she was doing, he felt the contents of his stomach -- which couldn't be much -- surging upwards, and he vomited into the pan she held out.
He thought he saw a glimpse of bright red as she took the pan away, but then her hand was back on his face, gently wiping the cloth over his mouth.
"Sssh," she said again. "Just rest." Unable to argue, he closed his eyes and did just that.