Greed liked to know things. If you knew things about someone, you owned them.
He knew Law kept a stash of penny dreadfuls under his bed. He knew Kimblee had a chocolate bar with his breakfast every morning. He knew Dorchet slept most nights in Martel's room, but they weren't having sex.
This bit of information puzzled the homonculus to no end.
He really hated mysteries.
Which was why he was up on the ladder, peering through a dirty window like some kind of Peeping Tom.
Dorchet lay with his head on Martel's stomach, his arms wrapped around her hips. She was running a hand through his hair, and the swordman whimpered softly, his body twitching in a dream. She whispered something to him that seemed to calm him down, rubbing his back with one hand.
It was intimate without being the least bit sexual. It was special.
And now it belonged to Greed.