The high-pitched noise had to catch her attention sometime and, expression mildly disgruntled, Winry put her tools away and started down the stairs.

Al looked up at her, face set in a decidedly guilty expression, something small and furry curled in one hand and an eyedropper full of milk in the other.

"More of them?" Winry demanded, hands on her hips, but her voice lacked any real heat. It was hard to stay angry when Al was making that face, unhappy and full of silent entreaty.

He flushed and glanced back down at the tiny kitten in his hand as it suckled at the eyedropper. "I don't understand why people do this, Winry," he said. "If they don't want their cats to have kittens, they could try to raise them and sell them, or at least... at least wait until they're weaned before getting rid of them."

The cardboard box at his booted feet told the whole story, because it wasn't the first time it had happened. Some couple would bring a box of kittens out and leave them in the countryside to survive or get eaten by predators. They seemed to think it was kinder than just drowning or burying them alive, though at that age, the kittens couldn't eat solid food or feed for themselves. Winry had seen seven kittens die even under Al's care, just from the exposure they'd already been through, usually from infections in their eyes or ears.

"I know, Al," she said, and her voice was soft. "But you brought in a box last week, and we can't afford to take care of so many right now."

The kitten in his hands yawned hugely and began grooming its face, so he set it on the table as he reached into the box of hand-sized kittens at his feet and removed one of its siblings. "Your turn now," he whispered to it, and held out the dropper to a greedy mouth.

"They get into everything," Winry said. "Their hair gets everywhere - even sealing off the operating room is getting a bit dicey, Al."

"I know," Al said, voice tiny. "But they won't live if I don't. Isn't that what being a doctor's for?"

For humans, she wanted to say, but couldn't, remembered a tiny puppy and an accident with a tractor and its blades, remembered holding its bleeding form out to her grandmother and demanding it get automail so it could live.

She walked over and looked at the kitten on the table, a little orange boy with startlingly dark eyes. It peered up at her nearsightedly, then flopped down on its side, presenting its belly for rubbing -- though when she lowered her hand to do so, it pushed her hand away with tiny paws and its pinprick claws. "Oho," she muttered at him. "It's like that, then?"

It purred smugly and chewed on one of her knuckles.

Al was watching her more than the kitten he was feeding, and the little guy had a bead of white milk on its black nose. She pointed and Al startled, turned back to the kitten, apologizing quietly as he dabbed at its nose.

"Yeah," Winry said. "Okay, but only until they're weaned, then we find them other homes. We already have twenty-two around the house, Al, we can't afford to have..." she counted. "...another five."

He smiled up at her, a brilliant expression. "Right," he agreed, and she sighed.

Well, there was a pretty large countryside around them, she reassured herself as she wove around cats and kittens and one big old dog. Even if they couldn't find extra homes, the neighbours wouldn't mind another mouser about.

"You're getting sappy in your advanced age of twenty-five," she muttered to herself, and headed to check on her appointments for the day.

The cat sitting on her appointment book purred innocently at her, and she shook her head to herself. "Far, far too sappy," she growled, put the cat outside, and headed back to work.