Chapter Text
The woman had been glancing between the same two books for at least five minutes now.
In her left hand was the latest installment in a popular crime drama focusing on the heroic exploits of one “Geoffrey Morgan”, a suave and cunning private investigator from West City.
A private investigator so suave and cunning in fact, that he managed to hide not only his complete lack of depth, relatability, or any sort of meaningful character growth from his adoring audience, but also the fact that his triumphant story ending deductions relied entirely upon teary confessions from the accused more than they did hard evidence. Pride only recognized the cover due to the series' emergence as a minor cultural phenomenon in Amestris. He would, of course, never touch such an uninspired piece of writing himself.
In her right hand was, judging solely by the cover, a run of the mill romance novel. A glossy drawing of a woman in plain, dull clothing slapping an imposing man in a suit across the face graced the front of the book, the dramatic effect somewhat ruined by the ill placed “Bestseller” sticker covering the woman’s entire head.
This was his first full outing alone with the woman, and thus his first chance to evaluate her worthiness as his little brother’s wife without Wrath there to sway his opinion. She couldn’t have known she was being judged so, else she would have at least feigned interest in more dignified reading before settling on whatever poor excuse for literature her human brain could digest.
Catherine glanced back at him from over her shoulder, as if she had felt the intensity of his gaze. She let out a quiet, knowing chuckle. “Oh, I know this must be terribly boring for you, Selim. I’ll be finished here in a second, and then you can help me pick out dinner for tonight. Would you like that?”
So she was planning on playing nice for now. He had wondered if her gentle motherly act would drop the second her husband was no longer in the room. Some of the others were like that, not that he had ever minded--in fact it was preferable. Pride was only ever adopted by a family to allow him better oversight over their pawns in Central Headquarters. The wife of whichever bureaucrat he worked through was never even a piece on the board. Regardless of how they viewed him at first, he did his best to ignore them, and eventually they all returned the favor.
It was curious that she was doing any sort of grocery shopping. Wrath kept a team of chefs on retainer, and there was no reason they couldn't handle all three meals. He had mentioned on several occasions different dinners she had cooked for them, but he always assumed that was a generous way of saying she had chosen the dish.
“Daddy said Uncle King has a bunch of servants who cook his food.” Hopefully he would never need to refer to Envy as Daddy ever again.
He had played his father, and Lust his mother, so that Catherine could meet him once before he assumed his role in their household. A dinner between Wrath, his wife, and his ‘distant relations’ had been arranged to introduce the concept of Selim, so that his existence wouldn't come as a surprise as their plans moved forward.
It was also an opportunity to ingratiate himself with her, ensuring her cooperation with the adoption. Not that there had been any concern on that front. The entire arrangement had been Wrath’s idea, spurred by his wife’s desire for children and his own genetic incompatibility, not that they had presented it to Father in such a light.
Pride had been hesitant, but he seldom denied his favorite little brother anything. He only regretted that they hadn't actually needed to burn his mock parents to death in a house fire. He and Lust maintained a cordial relationship, but there was no love lost between himself and Envy.
“Oh, we have more chefs than I know what to do with, but I like to cook on occasion. Now what do you like? I'm afraid I'm not as talented as the staff, but I like to think I'm decent in the kitchen.”
She stared at him hopefully, clearly expecting a response, but any degree of enthusiasm would just encourage her, and Pride hoped the novelty of motherhood would grow old sooner rather than later.
On the other hand, a rebellious or snarky answer could cause trouble. Catherine was the Fuhrer’s wife after all, and could respond spitefully to any perceived challenges to her authority. He had also promised Wrath he would be cordial at the very least.
He settled for a halfhearted shrug, acknowledging her question, but not giving any sort of definitive answer. It wasn't an inappropriate response from a child who had supposedly lost both his parents little more than a week ago.
Her smile faded for a heartbeat, allowing a subtle melancholy to taint her face before she recovered and the upbeat, happy mask was whole again. “What do you like to eat, Selim? There’s a market nearby with all sorts of meats, fish, vegetables, and fruit. Have you ever had fish?”
Amestris was entirely landlocked, and Central was especially removed from the water. Fish could be found in a few lakes and rivers, but they were small and unimpressive specimens. Quality seafood of any kind cost a premium to catch, freeze, transport, and then hold until someone with both interest and money happened by. It was a sign of prosperity that any vendors at the local market could afford to keep it in stock.
He supposed he couldn’t shrug off every question. “I like fish.”
They were three simple words, but she beamed. Her smile was sickeningly sweet, and he pointedly looked away.
“I like fish too!” she said, as if it were some deep revelation for which she had long been waiting. All the same, the cheer in her words rang less hollow than before. She turned and placed the book in her left hand back on the shelf she had grabbed it from.
“I’ll come back for that one.” She told him. “I do so love Geoffrey Morgan, but I’m not in the mood for that kind of head scratcher right now.”
Pride bit back the cutting retort that had instinctively jumped to the tip of his tongue in favor of asking the obvious question. “Why don’t you buy both?”
Did Wrath have her on a tight budget? The thought amused the crueler aspects of his nature, but it didn’t sound like him. No, Wrath wasn’t the kind of person to keep anyone he loved on any sort of leash, and Pride couldn’t deny that his brother clearly loved this woman.
“Oh, habit, I suppose.” She handed a few bills to the man behind the counter, clearly familiar with him. “Before I met King I worked as a barkeep. I couldn’t afford to own all the books I wanted, but every Friday after my shift I would come here to pick one out.”
She gazed down fondly at her new book’s cover. “It’s funny. Once I would have given anything to leave this place with my arms full, but now that I can, I find that I no longer want to. Every day I wake up excited for what new story the end of the week will bring. Picking out the book is half the fun.”
Surprisingly introspective from such a vapid woman, but then it was often said that wisdom came from the mouths of babes, though that particular saying was a rather glaring misinterpretation of a bible verse. Humans were rather prone to such misunderstandings, even concerning the myths they held to be the sacred truth.
He stumbled as they left the bookstore, silently cursing his improperly fitted shoes. No matter how long he spent preparing for his next cover, he always somehow forgot to secure appropriately sized footwear for his new age. Catherine offered her hand to steady him, but he ignored her.
The fishmonger was a fat old man far more cheerful than anyone relegated to selling seafood all day had any right to be, and he called out a greeting with a presumed familiarity that had Pride grinding his teeth. He held Catherine and all her predecessors in low regard, but an insult to her station was an insult to the very nation he had worked so hard to build.
It became clear that the woman knew him well, perhaps not as a friend, but better than some insignificant shopkeeper deserved. They chatted amicably about small things: the catch of the day, which was salmon, the weather, which was a tad colder than expected, the boy…
“My, er… He lives with us now. Say hello, Selim! Don't be shy now.” It seemed she didn't dare presume to call him son yet, not to his face anyway, not so soon after the accident.
“Hello.” A big fatty yellowtail caught his eye. It was his favorite fish, and his last cover in East City was even farther from the sea or any sizable lake, making good seafood almost impossible to find.
He pointed it out, and prepared to throw first his puppy eyes, followed by his I’m about to throw a massive tantrum in the middle of the street if you don't buy me what I want eyes if those failed. The latter was purely a bluff. Wrath wanted them to get along, and he wouldn't disappoint him without at least pretending to make an effort first. He needn’t have bothered. Catherine just smiled at him and told the man that they would take the yellowtail if he would be so kind.
They stopped at a small bakery next for a loaf of bread. Catherine seemed to know every shopkeeper in the local market, and she stopped to chat with the baker for an agonizingly long time. She seemed to sense his impatience, and he got a cookie for his trouble. It was stale, but frosted sugar cookies were his favorite. Even the mass produced version available in every supermarket was somehow head and shoulders above the other prepackaged varieties.
The art of displaying one’s displeasure without actually whining or throwing a fit was a valuable skill, as adults would seldom reward tantrums or whining. Decent parents wouldn't encourage that sort of thing, and even those willing to bribe their children for good behavior would bristle at the perceived challenge to their authority.
Quiet unhappiness was far more effective at both speeding up shopping trips and earning edible compensation, not that Pride particularly cared about anything so petty. Manipulating humans was entertaining even when the stakes were low, and it gave him something to do while he was stuck playing house.
A touch of frosting lingered on his lip, and he licked it off with relish. Okay, perhaps he had something of a sweet tooth. He had been designed in the likeness of a human child from head to toe to tastebud, so Father clearly didn't think it an issue, and his was really the only opinion that mattered. There was hardly anything childish about non harmful indulgences after all, and he was as incapable of rotten teeth as he was diabetes.
Their next stop was a tailor. It could hardly be expected that any of his clothing survived the complete immolation of his home, so his wardrobe would need to be replaced. It was a hassle, but his favorite suits could be slipped in over time without arousing suspicion. It wasn't as if she would be policing the contents of his closet after all.
Pride’s tailor was an old man in Central named Pete, a man he had patronized for several decades. He must have realized there was something off about his best client, an eternal child who should be at least forty by now, but Pete was either too professional, too disinterested, or too happy to take his money to mention it.
They hardly discussed any personal matters at all as a matter of fact, even on the occasions Pride was forced to stop by in person for measurements, usually the result of altering his container to fit his circumstances. He could add or subtract a few years from his current age as needed, and for young children that created a sizable difference in proportions.
He was almost tempted to move Pete out of the country before the Promised Day. He would still need clothing after Father ascended to godhood after all, and Pete was the ideal human relation: polite, reliable, incurious, and useful. He was the closest thing Pride had, wanted, or needed to a human friend. Still, he had spoken to Wrath beforehand to ensure they shopped elsewhere today. This was his most important role to date, and he wouldn't risk it on a human’s reticence, not even Pete’s.
Waist: 23 inches, chest: 25 and a half inches, neck: 11 and a half inches, inseam: 23 inches. His decade-long streak of maintaining a single form had been broken with this new assignment, and he suddenly found himself a few inches smaller in most dimensions. Pete was in the process of adjusting his old wardrobe, and those were the specifications he had been given. It was encouraging that the woman at Jillian Taylor’s—probably Jillian and probably not actually named Taylor—had concurred, though she cooed at him so much through the process he almost wished he had taken the risk.
“He’s doing such a good job holding still!” she told Catherine through the needle in her mouth. “I bet he’s a piece of cake.”
Being relegated to the subject of conversation as if the role of active participant were above him grated on his nerves, and he would have commented on it if wouldn't have sounded petulant or he weren’t so used to it already. Catherine smiled sadly in response, likely laboring under the impression his subdued mood was the result of his supposed recent trauma rather than a precocious maturity.
“Cute as a button too, such beautiful eyes.” That was true enough. He had met the occasional human with eyes some shade of violet, but none so vibrant as his. Such was the superiority of life designed lovingly by Father’s hand, as opposed to crawling out of the ocean by pure chance. “You said you’ll need a full wardrobe?”
“That's right. Daily wear, some formal pieces, pajamas, summer and winter versions for everything of course, a couple swimsuits, and something for snow just in case.”
“What about school uniforms?”
Pride tolerated short pants out of necessity, but he wasn't sure he could force himself into something more preppy and demeaning five days a week. He would express his distaste to Wrath in as strong a language as was necessary if it came to that.
“We haven't made a decision yet. King wants to have him tutored privately, but I think school provides a better social environment. We’ll wait until he’s had a chance to settle in before we decide.”
“Not a problem, just make sure you give me at least a week’s notice. Will you need anything special for church services? You can hop down now, sweetheart.”
He did so with a grimace. He had little desire to cram himself in a crowded building a couple times a year, month, or week depending on the woman’s level of holy fervor, to sit still for hours and be lectured on the flaws of man.
“I don't think we’ll need anything specific for church.”
“Mhmm, Christmas is coming up. How about something festive for the holidays, or a special outfit for next Easter?”
He had to respect her drive to make a sale, but horrifying images of sailor suits flashed through his mind. How that particular fashion trend managed to spread to a landlocked nation with no navy to speak of was beyond him.
“I think we’ll hold off for now.”
“Very well. Would you like input on anything, or shall I design them all from scratch?”
“I'm not all that familiar with children’s fashion,” Catherine admitted. “Perhaps something that brings out his eyes.”
“Purple, or orange, yellow, and green for a nice contrast. Too gaudy for primary colors, but should make for fun accents. Plenty of options there. Is that all?” asked the woman, scrawling a couple quick notes on a pad.
“Selim, do you have any preferences?” Catherine asked, giving his shoulder an encouraging squeeze.
He was pleasantly surprised to be included in the decision making. He had assumed the only reason she was seeing to all this herself was to dress him up like her own personal doll, the better to show him off to her peers. “Skinny to slim cut, traditional to modern classic fashion, black or gray base, single breasted except for the winter versions. I like bright solid ties, especially orange. No pocket squares.” Pocket squares were just a touch too decorative for a miniature frame, not to mention generally out of place anywhere but a wedding or a funeral.
That may have slipped off his tongue a little too naturally, but the tailor just cooed some more as she made a flurry of marks on the pad. Catherine beamed down at him, seemingly too pleased to hear him string together more than three words to be overly analytical of the words themselves.
They both left in higher spirits. The tailor seemed competent, if a tad demeaning, and he always enjoyed new clothing. At the moment he had the one suit and a couple of outfits bought off the rack. He couldn't remember the last time he stooped so low as to wear untailored clothing.
He was in for an interesting transition. Generally speaking, at least one person in his fake family knew he was no child, but he usually led them to believe he was some sort of demon willing to elevate their political career in exchange for their soul. This was his first time working with a partner who knew the whole picture, a veritable equal.
“Have you been measured like that before, Selim?” Catherine asked.
It took him a second to remember if Lust and Envy had been posing as a couple of any sort of wealth. They had not. Wrath’s story was that of a military prodigy from humble beginnings, rising from the ranks of the enlisted to stars on his shoulders in record time, until the timely death of Fuhrer Galman had seen him elevated to the highest seat in the land.
“No, we always just bought clothes off the shelves!” The clothes on his back were far too fine to be off the rack, but she would hardly notice the difference. In hindsight, it was a little odd for the clothes in which he supposedly escaped his burning house to be a full two piece suit, especially considering the distinct lack of smoke residue, but no one had questioned it.
“Miss Taylor was right, you know. You did a wonderful job holding still for her.” Truly his crowning achievement: five minutes on a short stool without fidgeting or falling off. Hurrah. “I think we have time for one more stop.” She grinned. “How about we drop by JO Filson’s?”
JO Filson’s—the largest and most famous toy store in Amestris, located there in Central, as most things large, famous, and Amestrian were. The founder Jonathon Otto Filson had been removed from his position as chief executive officer decades ago following his third arrest for assault, but the name remained.
Pride shrugged noncommittally, and her smile wavered. “You didn’t bring any toys with you,” she said quietly, “and I figured all of yours… well, I thought that you might not have any.”
He didn’t of course, unless one counted chess sets or decks of cards. Such childish fancies were beneath him. Anytime he maintained a cover as some politician or general’s son, he inevitably ended up with some assortment of trinkets—stuffed bears, tin soldiers, jacks, picture books—little odds and ends gifted to him by unwitting humans, but every reassignment was an opportunity to purge himself of them.
His thoughts were interrupted as he stepped down from the curb, the heel of his shoe catching and causing him to stumble forward in an undignified manner. That did it. The next time he had the chance, he was having a pair made in every size he could ever conceivably need. The buckles were already pulled as tightly as he could manage, but perhaps they had come loose.
As he stopped and bent forward to tighten them, he realized he had fucked up dearly and completely. Harsh white light filled his peripheral vision, and he knew even before turning his head that it could only be an automobile. A black Fjord Model T, his brain supplied unhelpfully. He had options, but none of them good, and precious little time to consider them.
One, he could reach out and stop the vehicle himself. It would be easy, and the satisfying thought of shadow tearing through metal and flesh had his fingers twitching, but such a foolish display would draw unprecedented scrutiny. Not to mention he would likely have to replace Catherine afterward, and that may be the one thing for which Wrath would never forgive him.
Two, he could dodge out of the way entirely. It was doable if he acted immediately, and would circumvent the issue of supernatural healing, but displaying the reflexes of a cat and agility of a trained gymnast would raise some questions. Considerably more manageable questions than the first option to be sure, but Wrath’s accounts of his wife described a perceptive and intelligent woman. While that wasn’t Pride’s impression, he couldn’t afford to risk it.
Three, he could simply take the hit. In his experience, human children were simultaneously both the most fragile creatures on Earth and nearly indestructible. As long as none of his limbs came off in the collision, his survival and recovery would be lauded as a miracle, but only as a figure of speech. His control over his healing process was far from complete, but he should be able to delay it so that any bones that ended up pointing in the wrong direction remained that way at least until they could reasonably be reset.
The car was closing in, and he needed to make a decision. Unless he was mistaken, it seemed to be angling in the direction they had been walking, most likely a panicked attempt at steering away from him. It wasn’t much, but it presented him with a new alternative. He could dive backward and take the hit on his legs, avoiding any clearly fatal injuries. Painful? Yes, but unless-
While his attention was on the vehicle screaming toward him, a weight slammed into him from the front, knocking the air from his lungs and throwing him backward, the back of his head bouncing painfully off the concrete.
Catherine knelt above him, her arms wrapped tightly around his body, and for a moment Pride could do little but stare up at her in confusion, vaguely registering that the vehicle had screeched to a halt in front of a lamppost barely half a meter away from where they lay.
Unlike a human, a blow to the head did not impair his cognitive abilities for more than a moment. While inside his vessel, his consciousness was linked to its brain, but nothing short of actual cranial destruction could shut it down, and temporary damage was rectified almost immediately. As such, he understood perfectly what had just happened.
He just… he just couldn't understand why.
This woman was an ordinary human, an aging and frail one at that. Even a glancing blow from a vehicle moving at more than a crawl would put her in the hospital, if not a casket, and yet she had risked it all the same. Not only that, but to throw him from danger before he had even started moving, she must have acted with no hesitation at all.
Why? Why would anyone risk their life for their husband’s nephew, a boy little more than a stranger to them? She slowly eased herself away in order to look down at him, tears streaking her face. “Selim, are you… are you alright?”
He continued to stare up at her blankly for a moment, before realizing that he should be at least as upset as she, and promptly bursting into tears. “I was buckling m-m-m-my shooooooeeee, and then it- it was gonna hit m-m-m-meeeeeeee!” Pride had always been able to cry on command, a useful talent for keeping up appearances, but the tears seemed to come easier than usual, primed by the unidentified emotions brewing inside his gut.
She embraced him again, clutching him to her bosom and rubbing her hands along his back in a soothing circular motion. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
From over her shoulder, he could glimpse the security force that had been following them with varying degrees of subtlety roughly pulling the driver from the car. The captain hurried to their side with a grim expression. “We’ve called for the car, Ma’am. It will be here shortly.”
She nodded, smiling weakly. “We’re going to get you home soon. Okay, Selim?”
“Okay…” he mumbled into her shoulder. She seemed so sad, despite her obvious relief. In her mind, this trip probably couldn't have gone much worse. “…but you said we could go to JO Filson’s.”
That gave her pause. “You still want to go?”
He nodded, using his sleeve to wipe at the mess of tears and snot adorning his face. “If… If that’s okay.” Though her actions were ultimately pointless, she deserved some sort of reward for them. The least he could do was muster up some enthusiasm.
“Of course it is!” She beamed down at him like he had just promised her the world, holding out her hand. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”
His clothes were matted with dirt, bits of gravel clung to the back of his hair, and he realized belatedly that he could have washed his face more easily than his last remaining jacket, but he was uninjured as always. Not only that, but he had sustained no wounds in the first place. “I’m fine. Can I get a bear?” Stuffed animals were more tolerable than most other toys. At the very least they were comfortable to sleep with.
“You can get anything you want,” his mother promised as he took her hand, “anything at all.”