Author's Note: I wanted this to be a part of In Pieces, but couldn't make it work. So in the drabble files it goes.
The basement of Madame Christmas's bar was dark, and completely contrary to Grumman's expectations, immaculate. He suspected this had less to do with Christmas's efforts and more with that of her employees. She wasn't known as a particularly tidy woman. Shrewd, and frighteningly perceptive definitely, but she relied heavily on her girls to handle the daily aspects of running a brothel. Her own interests were safely hidden beneath the surface of legitimate business.
Grumman shifted in his chair as he waited. If not for the extremely sensitive nature of their meeting, he'd have insisted on a plush booth upstairs. He'd only met the boy a few times, and wondered how much of his parents' influence still held sway. Probably not much, he'd only been a snot-faced child freshly out of diapers when they'd been killed. He knew he was a heartless beast for being more broken up over losing a valuable agent than a toddler losing his family.
He was used to being a beast, though. Hopefully his soul would have a few less black marks against it if this meeting went successfully. It wasn't just about the Mustang boy, after all. There was another child…
"Sorry to keep you waiting." Christmas's voice echoed from the stairs. The smell of cigarette smoke heralded her arrival more so than anything else. She eased into a chair across from him, and flicked a bit of ash into a glass tray.
"It's my pleasure, Madame. I appreciate you seeing me at all." Grumman knew full well that flattery did not work on the Madame, but it was his way.
She leaned back in the chair, eliciting a groan from the wooden structure. "I know why you're here, and the answer is no."
"Madame, I think you should at least hear me out-"
"No. If you think for one second I'll send my nephew off to become the same dead pile of blood and bone my brother-"
"That's quite premature, don't you think? He's a child, and I've said nothing of military service."
Christmas snorted, and a cloud of smoke billowed from her nostrils. It reminded Grumman very much of a dragon. "That's the endgame, though isn't it? He's a bright boy, and you want to groom him."
"It's not-"
"No."
"But you haven't even heard my proposal! The teacher I have in mind is not even military!" Grumman slouched. "Hates it, in fact."
Madame Christmas raised an eyebrow, and brought another cigarette to her lips. "I'm listening."
"He's an independent alchemist completely unaffiliated with the government. A little… eccentric, perhaps, but he'd make a fine alchemy master. You'd need to contact him yourself, though. I could give you his address."
"And why is that?" Her dark eyes narrowed, and Grumman felt naked. He should have known she'd sniff his intentions out.
"Did you know I had a daughter once? She was lovely. A perfect copy of her mother, thank the gods."
Christmas puffed her cigarette wordlessly. At least she hadn't shut him down altogether.
"As young girls sometimes do, she fell in love. I handled it wrong. I know that now, but back then, I was still trying to hold on…" His voice drifted off, as memories long buried began to haunt him. Grumman scrubbed his face with weathered hands, and focused on his audience. "She ran off. I never saw her or her husband again. She died shortly after my granddaughter was born. I've never even met the child."
"The night wears on, Grummy. Get to the point."
"Berthold Hawkeye is a brilliant alchemist, despite my feelings towards him personally. He would never push your nephew into military service regardless of aptitude. If you want Roy to be safely trained away from men like me, Hawkeye could do that."
The Madame eyed him suspiciously for several long, and silent moments. "What's the catch?"
Grumman flushed. She really did go for the throat. "My granddaughter. I'm… curious. If Roy could get any sort of read on her or what goes on in the house… I'd be indebted to you."
"If this Hawkeye is such a brilliant man, why do you look so pale? If you keep beating around the bush, I'll walk out of this room."
"He is brilliant. I've heard he has a hard time keeping apprentices, though. And, like I said, he's a bit eccentric."
Christmas quirked an eyebrow.
"I just need to know my granddaughter is okay. Is she healthy? Has she been educated properly? Do they have everything they need? There's no sinister plot here, Madame, I assure you. Just an old man's druthers coming to call."
She reached inside her cloak, and withdrew a small notepad and pen. When she slidthem across the table, and Grumman reached out, Madame Christmas caught hold of his wrist. Her grip was unexpectedly painful.
"If I find out you're using Roy-boy for some military bullshit, I'll gut you myself. When he's old enough, he can make his own decisions, but for now he's under my watch. He doesn't know about his parents. Doesn't need to. Don't fuck with me, Grumman."
Grumman swallowed, and shakily wrote his former son-in-law's address on a page of the notepad. Christmas nodded, and stuffed the paper back into some hidden pocket within the fur-lined cloak.
"Stay for a drink, if you like. It's on the house." Without another word, she left him alone in the incredibly tidy basement.
Later that evening, considerably warmer due to the alcohol, Grumman wrapped his trench coat tighter around his aging body. He told himself he'd done his best for a granddaughter he'd never met. Let the pieces fall where they may.
