alternate chapter title: u can't spell 'funeral' without 'fun'
anyway grumman is one of those characters that i have always felt wary of – in my eyes he is not the doting grandparent the fandom occasionally makes him out to be, but rather that he has his own agenda going on and to me he is more self-serving than mustang could ever be when the need arises. it was interesting trying to negotiate those feelings i have about him as well as showing that he is capable of an emotional reaction – as someone who was removed from the equation not by choice, and had to deal with the fallout with limited resources. perhaps ol' bertie is due for a bit more credit than what i give him at times, ay?
The sky is a ridiculous blue when his youngest grandchild is buried, in a small cemetery on the outskirts of village an hour from East City.
It is a simple ceremony. There is no fanfare or frivolity. It is what she would have wanted.
It is not what he wants.
Grumman has attended many funerals in his career – it is a hazard of the job when you are responsible for so many lives – but none have been quite as tragic as this. He realises that he is not just mourning for his granddaughter, as he watches her coffin approach across the grass. He is also mourning for his little girl – sweet, beautiful, delicate Caroline, whom he never saw again after that awful argument.
He is mourning for the family he has lost. For the family he will never regain.
Grumman had such high hopes for the two of them.
His gaze shifts to where Mustang is, surrounded by his men and next to him, his aunt. They're easily the largest group in attendance – at least a hundred of them, Madame Christmas the only one standing out amongst the sea of blue and black in a dark burgundy coat with a white fur trim. She's not entirely ostentatious on her own, but then Grumman notices the small groups of women dotted elsewhere in the cemetery, with beautiful curls and dark veils. They look like the little porcelain dolls he used to buy for his daughter, all immaculate and still and slightly unnerving.
A cool breeze shifts through the cemetery and he drags his attention back to the hole before him in the ground. He is grateful that she isn't being buried alongside her mother and him. He wasn't even aware of this borough before he pulled up with his personal detail – tucked away behind the Cremil Ranges, next to a small village with a small but steady economy based upon sheep, cattle, and curious city-folk. The air is cleaner here, cooler than the likes of East City, and Grumman wonders what exactly led her to buy a grave plot in a place that by all accounts she has never visited nor has any discernable ties to.
As he has learned in his old age, wasting time on regrets or missed opportunities gets you nowhere – but there is an uncomfortable sting as he realises how little he actually understood his grandchild, all things considered. He had tried to – but at the time she had been young and scared and grieving for the blood on her hands and no amount of we're family now, Riza could convince her that he could be that to her – that family could mean something different than shut doors, silence and a fucking tattoo.
Subject has a large, partially burned back tattoo than spans from the shoulders to lower back. Appears to be alchemic in nature, though further research would need to be conducted to ascertain what it is referring to. Burns are from several years ago, affecting the upper and lower dermis of the skin, though not to the point of the muscles. Bleeding of the ink implies either an amateur job, or done when the subject was still in puberty – marks of growth affect the emblem and Latin somewhat.
The tattoo is unlikely to be the cause of death, though the lack of its mention in other accompanying health records gives cause to be suspicious.
Chris had been far too dismissive when he had called her, the death report from the coroner crushed and torn in his hands as he fought not to cry or yell or scream down the receiver. When did this happen? he had asked, hands shaking and voice cracking under the stress of finding out that she was every bit a stranger to him as he had feared and it was all because of him.
When she was a teenager, I imagine. The rest was burned after Ishval.
And you knew?
Of course I knew, George. Who do you think smuggled the morphine so she wouldn't have to go to hospital?
The rumours this week had been awful. He truly had underestimated what Central was capable of – Central, which only has the barest of ties with the Eastern district even at the best of times – had still managed to find out the day after she died.
They had not been kind.
Everything from suicide to murder had been hotly discussed – and though he didn't hear the brunt of it, thank every god and goddess and saint – his presence here today would only fuel those rumours even more.
He wouldn't be surprised if his connection to her was common knowledge before the week is out. He doesn't care, really. It will not affect him in the slightest.
It will affect Mustang, however. Though his detractors have kept very quiet this week (and that in itself is already suspicious), they won't stay that way for long. Mustang is a talented soldier – that cannot be disputed, but Grumman will not deny that he has held a soft spot for the kid – a soft spot that was put there by his granddaughter. From the few, stilted conversations they had over the years, he was able to gather that it was Mustang that took care of her, even when that man was still alive.
He has a lot to thank the General for, but right now, he can only feel anger. Logically, he knows it's not his fault – no one's fault but her own, really – but he had to find out through his secretary gossiping to someone on the phone and he doesn't think he will be able to forgive the Mustang's for that for a very long time.
The soldiers who carry her casket come to a stop in front of the small crowd. A man – someone Grumman doesn't recognise – drones on for a bit about how tragic it was that she was taken so young, but yet that they should all take solace in knowing that her life was not lived in vain. Mustang at this point looks like he's either going to hurl or collapse as the balding man continues, listing her achievements and medals won in the Ishvallan civil war like he is reading the morning's weather report.
It is entirely too blasé for him – for many of the soldiers, Grumman notices, who are all glaring at the speaker as if to kill him with the sheer power of their expressions alone. Grumman was relatively aware of the work that they had completed in helping rebuild the Ishvallan district, but yet it's only now he notices how many of the other attendees have the conspicuous red eyes or ashen hair. They blend in well in their Amestrian formalwear – perhaps as a sign of respect, he concedes.
The speaker finishes on some awful comment about the idea of life after death and Grumman grimaces as they lower her casket into the ground. He watches as they all shuffle by, raining handfuls of dirt over her. He spies the Elric boys, accompanied by two women – one looks distinctly uncomfortable as she nears the open grave, the other pauses before fiddling at her ears before dropping the jewellery down instead of the dirt. Grumman is faintly scandalised but the moment passes and he feels a hand at his elbow as one of his new bodyguards – Elana? Eloise? – gestures towards the waiting car at the fringes of the cemetery.
"We need to go now, sir." Her tone is firm, but polite and he heaves his shoulders a little bit, but nods and adjusts his cap and turns away from the awaiting congregation. He hears the faintest of whispers as he passes but he pays them no mind. Let them talk, let them gossip. If they were smart enough to realise the connection, they would also be smart enough to realise why continuing to talk would be dangerous for their careers.
The ride back to East City is quiet and his other bodyguard – Fiona? – reads a book as the car winds back through paddocks of sheep and pumpkins. It isn't until he spots the familiar skyline of East City that he finally places this odd feeling that's settled in his gut since the two of them arrived at his office that morning.
Eloise has done her job perfectly – she looked and acted the part exactly, but Fiona hadn't lost all the vestiges of her glamorous other life – and he knows that particular perfume anywhere. It's hard to shake off wealth when you're accustomed to it, and he would bet on his life that Fiona is one of the new girls – this being her first assignment to see if she can cut it as person other than herself.
"How much is the Madame paying you today?" he asks casually, enjoying how Fiona's fingers still on the pages of her book and Eloise's hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, knuckles whitening. Neither woman responds.
Grumman nods his head and feels the anger settle slightly in his clenched jaw. His whole body is tense and it takes every ounce of what frayed willpower he has left not to slam his hand down on the plush leather interior of the car.
"Enough not to talk?" he manages. "Well, that's alright then. The General and I will have a little chat about this later." There's only the slightest tremor in his voice and he feels his ears beginning to warm. He is angry and embarrassed and insulted – how dare he be removed from this moment of grief before he is ready; how dare Madame Christmas have the audacity to dictate how and when he should mourn for his grandchild.
"He doesn't know," Eloise says quickly, eyes firmly on the road ahead. "You will need to bring it up with the Madame. She orchestrated it all. Your security is severely lacking, sir." There's venom in her timbre and Grumman is a little taken aback at how vehement her response is to a man who could do more than just hurt her – all he needs a single phone call and the both of them will disappear from the face of this earth with hardly a sound: and Grumman doubts that somehow the Madame will make a fuss over either of their sudden and silent departures from her establishment with more than a blink of her eyes and a quiet sigh.
His gloved hands ball into tight fists and Grumman focuses on his breathing. In. Out.
In.
Out.
Eloise keeps driving.