prompt: "i'm sick"
characters: selim bradley/pride, mrs. bradley
warning: murder-y thoughts
It's the little details he thinks as he examines his complexion in the mirror, applying the facecloth to his cheeks again. He grimaces a little at the pain – the facecloth isn't hot enough to blister his skin, but it is just enough to make him obviously flushed and unnaturally warm to touch.
Existing as a homunculus in a world inundated with humans has always presented itself with a plethora of problems, but those are multiplied even more when you're posing as a human child. It had been easier in his other lives – where he wasn't quite as close to the chain of command; where his act didn't need to be quite so enduring and consistent – but now they are in the final stages of the Promised Day and Pride cannot afford to slip up and give his mother any reason to be suspicious.
So here he is, locked in the bathroom down the hall from his bedroom, carefully applying not-quite scalding facecloths in a bid to act naturalunnatural, in a bid to act human.
Carefully, he pats his face dry, watching as the bright red flush begins to recede. Too much and she'll think he just wants to get off school – of course he does, he has learnt his timetables for the eighty-ninth time and he isn't sure how much longer he can keep up this façade of the 'bright young boy' without stabbing precocious Eloise Hamner the III in the eye with a colouring pencil.
If he can manage to keep her attention for the rest of the night, his brotherfather can slip out undetected and Mama will hardly bat an eyelash in her husband's direction. Pride shrugs his shoulders and pulls out the plug in the sink, and watches the steaming water drain away, the vapour curling and evaporating before his eyes.
He has perfected the wail now – the volume, the tone, the timbre that begins it and the gravelly tinge that warbles towards the end. He knows exactly how to present himself – a little teary, exhausted and smaller than the vibrant persona he has to be every waking second of his not-life. He unlocks the bathroom door and turns off the light.
"MAMA!" the call travels easily down the hallway and there's a pause before he hears the familiar rustle of her dress as she rounds the corner, her eyebrows pulled together.
"Selim?" she asks, kneeling down and running her hands over his shoulders. "What's wrong?"
He sniffs a little, and rubs at his eyes with his arm. "I don't feel good," he answers, making the intonation on feel a little higher than normal. She raises the back of her hand to his forehead and her expression softens, gathering him swiftly into a hug.
"You've just got a little fever, that's all dear. Let's go get some medicine, and I'll call your teacher tomorrow." Her voice is warm and soft and she carefully gathers him up into her arms. Mama smells of bergamot and honey and he curls his arms around her neck.
As she walks in the direction of the kitchen, her fingers absentmindedly stroke at his hair. Pride closes his eyes, trying to ignore the warm sensation settling in his chest.