I'm back with the next chapter! Thanks again for the reviews, I'm glad to see this story has garnered so much interest already.
Dobby's Polka-Dotted Sock
Chapter Three
Allen ducked under the arm of a rather drunken man who was attempting to dance some sort of solo waltz, making a beeline for the mop behind the counter. The alcohol still left in the mug the stumbling man clutched tightly in his hand was sure to be helped by gravity to the floor any time now. Madeline was the one working at the bar at the moment, and she paused in the conversation she had been engaged in to greet him.
"Allen dearie, there you are!" She leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek, causing him to fiddle a little nervously with the bow tie around his neck. Violet had found it stuffed in a box only a few days ago and decided that it completed his outfit. At first he'd fussed a little at wearing it, but when he saw Madeline wiping at her eyes with a kerchief and a rare warm look on Madame Christmas' face, he had given in.
"Can I have the mop, Madeline?" He asked her, and she followed his discreet head tilt toward the man now in the center of the floor.
"Of course you can," she agreed, still all smiles for the customers, despite being as aware as he was of the headache sure to come soon. "Isn't he an angel?" She gushed to the older woman she had been talking to when Allen arrived.
"Looks like one," the woman replied.
"You're too kind," he said with a small laugh, dipping his head in acknowledgement of each woman before departing with the mop.
If asked, Allen would have to say he was living an odd life, insofar as he knew, which wasn't much. Just the snippets of conversations and stories he had from the customers who would come, stay awhile, and drift back out of the doors into the night. Most children his age were in school, and when home did their homework for the next day, met with friends and played, had a meal with their family, and were in bed by nine.
He woke up and had breakfast before getting ready with the rest for the first of the customers, along with his family. Well, he would like to think they were his family. Madame Christmas and her daughters, foster-daughters really, had taken him in, put him on his feet, and given him something to be and something to work for when he couldn't find that in himself. He couldn't find anything in himself.
While the Madame was certainly in charge of the whole place, he was gradually learning more about each of his other family members as well.
OoO
Sylvia was always happy, always willing to talk and laugh, and so easy going it was hard to believe she had ever worked a day in her life. It had taken a while for Allen to get used to her, for something in the back of his mind told him her bubbly personality should irritate him. But why?
But even those lingering defenses were quickly worn away. He soon discovered Sylvia had a kind, sensitive side to her as well.
"Sylvia, you're going to teach Allen how to balance trays. To be a server, that is crucial," the Madame spoke one slow morning.
"Okay, Madame, c'mon Allen!" She had led him into the kitchen, and grabbed two trays. "Put your hands out, palms up," she told him and then laid the trays one on each hand. It seemed simple enough, but the tray on his right hand was already beginning to wobble.
As soon as she placed just a meager plastic plate, it tipped over and banged against the ground. They tried again countless times, but always with the same result.
"Argh!" Allen finally said, throwing the things down and storming out the back door, into the alley where he had first been found. There wasn't anywhere he could go really, so he paced to the dumpster and back over and over.
"Allen," Sylvia called softly after some time, and he looked up to see her staring at him with soft eyes and a sad frown. "It's the automail, isn't it? You don't have to get angry; it's not your fault."
"You don't know that," he snapped, "No one does!" He wasn't sure what he wanted. His limbs made him odd, he realized that. But why did it have to impact something so simple? Had it always been like that, or maybe somewhere in his brain he knew how use the stupid things properly.
When she placed on hand on the metal shoulder, he stopped, and looked at her face again. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment, casting his eyes down to the ground, suddenly ashamed at losing his temper with her. "I guess, it's hard for me to find balance with—"
She cut off his explanation and said, "You feel this."
"I- what?" He blinked, and then there was a sudden increase of the pressure on the metal, and he looked down to see her tightening the grip she had on the automail.
"Is that different?"
"Yeah. It's hard to describe. It's like, I feel something blocking the movement, putting pressure on it, I don't know. But I don't feel the warmth or the texture or anything like that."
"She gave him one of her bright smiles then, and said, "Okay, then we know what to do. You learn to balance the pressure."
"You think I can do that?" He didn't know the first thing about the limbs he was wearing.
"You must have before. And I'll help you. We'll practice till you get it right."
They had worked late into the night, balancing full and empty trays, walking, sidestepping, ducking, until not a drop was ever spilled. The sleepy smile on her face when the Madame deemed him a success the next morning was all worth it, and he owed it all the Sylvia.
OoO
Violet was quite near the opposite of her younger sibling. Oh, she was charming and liked to laugh and have fun, but she was more reserved and had a bit more of a temper to her. A drunken customer at the bar learned that the hard way one evening.
"Here you are, sir," Allen said, passing the man the umpteenth beer purchased that evening.
"Thanks s'boy," the man slurred, reaching out and taking the beverage. Unfortunately he also caught Allen's glove in his hand, pulling it right off and exposing the shiny metal.
Allen wore the gloves simply for aesthetic reasons. The Madame said that it looked nice, and added that it cut away awkward questions about his automail that none of them could answer. According to Madame Christmas, simplicity was the key to running a business. The less shared, the better.
This little slip-up shouldn't have been a big deal, in his eyes. But the man on the other side of the counter was staring at Allen's hand like it was diseased.
"Say Vi," he asked the brunette, "wha'sis freak doing here? Hirin' from tha' junkyard?"
It had felt like a slap right to the face. He wasn't sure what to do, spiraling somewhere between shame and fury. Was that what people out in the real world thought about automail? He didn't know much about them himself, but without them he wouldn't even be walking!
What kind of asshole—
But he never even finished his thought because a lightly tanned arm reached out, snagged the mug of beer from the man's grasp, and then turned it over his head. Allen could only watch in shock, awe, and even a little bit of humor as the man sputtered and blinked widely like he'd just come up from the ocean.
"Wha' th—"
"If you have a problem with one of our servers, I suggest you leave," Violet spoke in a low, almost dangerous tone, placing an almost protective hand on Allen's shoulder. He managed to tilt his head far back enough to see a dangerous glint in her eyes.
The man scowled and slowly stood. "Fine, see iffn I evrem back here 'gin!" And he staggered rather ungracefully from the bar.
Later, Allen waited outside Madame Christmas' room, nervous and trying to hear what was going on within.
"You insulted, disgraced, and threatened a customer, caused him to leave the building with a bad experience, and wasted a perfectly good beer just because he spoke a few slurs about one of my employees."
"Yes, Madame. I'm sorry, I know that—" she paused, then continued in a firmer tone. "I don't feel that what I did was wrong."
There was a long, long wait and Allen's fear for Violet only rose with each passing second. What was Madame Christmas going to say?
"You have nothing to be sorry about," the Madame spoke at last. "Always look out for the people that you can; if you don't then you're not worth looking out for. Isn't that what I've always said?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Good girl."
He couldn't stop himself from hiding as she exited the room, sticking close to the shadows. But he knew he had to say something. Even if it was a little embarrassing that she'd had to stick up for him at all.
"Violet," he called softly, and she turned in surprise to see him. "I, uh…thanks," he finally offered, scuffing the wood floor with his shoe.
She smiled warmly and said, "Don't mention it," before disappearing into her own room for the night.
OoO
Jessica, the oldest of the four girls, had been the hardest to figure out. She was both mature, but liked to tease. In the first few days of his stay, she had used every little trick to make him speechless or spluttering, and red in the face. The Madame would only bark at him to take it and learn to deal with it, because it would only get worse from there. Sometimes he felt that learning to work in Madame Christmas' Bar was like some kind of army boot camp. At least a boot camp wouldn't have Jessie making fun of him.
He'd finally gotten fed up enough to once again take to the alley. It was one of his favorite haunts, at least in the daytime. Madeline never let him outside at night, scared that he would get attacked again, or worse.
He sat with his back to the dumpster. So he wasn't an outgoing guy. At least, he didn't think he was. Then again, who knew? It was so frustrating. But did she have to rub it in that he was a newbie who knew nothing about this kind of life?
Allen had spaced out, so when he finally saw her boots and tights in front of him, he groaned. He supposed she was here to gloat at him for running away.
"Hey, I'm sorry," she said instead, crouching down to meet him eye to eye. "I know you're mad at me, but it's just so fun; I've missed having a little brother." She ruffled his long bangs and then plopped down beside him. He felt bad for making her sit on the hard, somewhat cold ground, but she looked at ease. "I was his big sister, practically helped raise him, but I used to tease Roy like no other."
"Was that his name?" Allen asked curiously. He had actually never heard any of them speak it, and Jessie nodded with a smile.
"Yep, little Roy. We called him Roy-Boy. Once he got old enough to start acting like a boy, he hated it. He'd get so mad!" She laughed, and Allen couldn't help but to smile at her story.
"He and Maddie were the closest. She really took it hard when he went away. But it was time for him to grow up, and that's always been the Madame's dream; to raise us up out of these lives we were born into and be something. Roy's got the best shot at that, so we all pitch in as best we can. But Madeline's always wished he could've stayed here with us."
"Is that why she's so attached to me."
"Probably, but it's more than that. I think she sees you as something like a son, Allen. Maddie's always loved families."
He looked down at his gloved hands in his lap, not really sure what to say. A…son?
"I- I'm not sure if—is it okay if I don't—Madeline wouldn't want a kid like me."
"Really, what's wrong with you, Allen? And it better not be that automail, because I think our little group has shown that we don't care about that."
"It's not, it's more just a- a feeling. And, I don't know… I don't think I'd be able to call her mom." His voice sounded so small in that alley. There, a few feet before him, was where he had been lying unconscious and hurt, and Madeline had found him and brought him in. But… "If there's someone out there really looking for me, well they're waiting for their son to come home, right?"
"I think that's very wise, Allen," Jessica told him, and they sat like that until Madeline called them both in for dinner.
OoO
Roy sat, waiting, at his unbelievably clear desk. That morning, and the ones before it for the past week, he had worked, actually worked on the files and forms and stacks of papers set before him to try and pass the time between Hughes' phone calls. And then by late afternoon he would have nothing to do except stare at the damn device and try to will it with his eyes to ring.
Because Colonel Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, did not call a Lieutenant Colonel in the Investigations Department in Central to ask how a MIA case was going. Even if he wanted to.
He did know that as soon as Fullmetal was found, he would be strangled and then court-martialed for this. How could one idiot, loud-mouth, tiny child cause so much damage to his nerves?
He took a long draught of the coffee Hawkeye had recently brought him, trying to calm said nerves. His anxiety was likely due to the fact that Fullmetal was an important asset to the military that had been placed under his care—command. Thus, if anything were to happen to said asset, the blame would fall on him. It would be a blight on his record, ruin his reputation, keep him from advancing in rank for who knew how long, and wreck his plans beyond recognition.
So, Fullmetal had to be found. Soon.
The phone wasn't even half-way through the first ring when he snatched it from the cradle, ignoring the concerned look Hawkeye sent his way. Because the Central Department was running this case, he had not been allowed to inform his subordinates of the situation. He could Roy could have ignored it of course, but the less people who knew about the situation, the less real it seemed to him.
"Mustang."
"Roy, bad news. We've found no trace of him. Alphonse hasn't been able to identify the place where they split up, so we have no trail. No criminals, gangs, or terrorists have made a statement or indicated they are holding him for ransom, no one has come forward, and Fullmetal himself has made no contact."
"Damn," he muttered.
"Yeah, I agree. The poor kid's going frantic. It's hard for me to calm him down; I can't really tell what he's thinking with that armor on. What's up with that?"
"Don't ask," he ground out, rubbing at his temples. "Something tells me that wasn't the only bad news, Maes."
"Well, they're still refusing to let the case go public," he added.
"Which is only slowing things down. There could be twenty eye-witnesses out there who just haven't been asked yet!"
"Yeah, I know. But Central's going from a different angle."
"What angle is that?"
"A train ticket with your name on it. They want you working the case, too, seeing how it's 'all your fault'."
Just what he'd feared.
"What time does my train leave?"
"Seven o'clock."
"I'm expecting a full report when I arrive."
"Of course, Colonel."
"Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel."
"We're going to find him, Roy." They'd better.
He hung up the phone and stood.
"Sir?" Hawkeye inquired, obviously confused by the one-sided conversation and his apparent departure.
"Lieutenant, Fullmetal has gone missing in Central and I'm being pulled onto the team looking for him. I'll be gone indefinitely." With any luck, twenty-four hours at most. He could dream, anyway. "You'll be in command of the unit while I'm away. Any questions?"
"No sir," she responded promptly.
"Good, I expect you to debrief the team," He pulled his coat on and made for the door to the outer office.
"Find him, Colonel." He glanced back and could just see the concern in her eyes. How on earth in just two years had a brat like Fullmetal managed to make such an impression on his unflappable Lieutenant?
"That's my mission," he replied, and left for the train station.
Okay, so this chapter was mostly about fleshing out the characters of Sylvia, Violet, and Jessica, because I didn't want them to seem flat or just there. They're Roy's foster-sisters, they've got to be interesting!
Anyway, now Roy himself is coming to Central, will he have better luck than Hughes and company locating his missing subordinate? And how is Alphonse handling things?
Thanks again for all the feedback from the last chapter, it's a great feeling. Hope you enjoyed reading this, and please review!
