In his years of having automail, Edward thought himself quite the mechanic. For minor repairs that is, he couldnt dream of trying to fix the scrap his arm sometimes became like Winry did. His automail was precious.

Resembool was just too far to travel if he needed a screw tightened or a bolt replaced. However he’d never claim to be perfect. He could tell his work was a bang up job every time he rattled around in his arm or leg, cursing every time he bumped the wires connecting the nerve endings in his shoulder to the arm and leg.

“Shit—“ He hissed, jaw clenching as the wrench twisted a bit too far. This wiggly screw was on the upper bicep of his automail, and was proving to be a bitch to get out.