Who wants some thoughts on Mrs. Bradley?
For starters, she’s pretty much the one defining thing that Wrath makes a big deal out of. He has no qualms admitting that his life was planned out for him from the very beginning - except for his wife - always with that key exception pointed out.
Mustang expressing his disgust for Bradley’s identity and fabricated human life? Bradley makes certain Mustang knows that he chose his wife. Riza discovering Selim’s identity? Bradley once again feels the need to tell her that his wife is his own. Even Lanfan, when asking why he has no final words, not even for his wife - Bradley insists that there’s nothing more his wife needs to hear from him. She understands.
Now, Mrs. Bradley did not know King was a homunculus, or that he was raised for the destruction of their country, or any of the nefarious plotting Father had in store. I fully believe she was kept in the dark about that all. But I do think she knew what sort of man her husband was, inside and out. The kind of man he was away from the public eye, when he didn’t need to be so composed, when he needn’t hide his wrathful tendencies.
And I think she was the lone human who really knew how savage he was.
Which leads me to picture many-a-night of King returning home late, mad as hell, and knowing he can vent to his wife.
Bradley, angrily hanging up his coat, stomping around and pulling off his socks: “Bunch of mouth-breathing imbeciles leading our country I swear. Mindless brainless spineless slabs of wasted meat and oxygen. I’d just as soon unleash the guard dogs on them and then have the dogs take their place. At least the dogs follow orders!”
Mrs. Bradley, in bed and reading by the lamp on her nightstand, casually turning the page: “Oh now wouldn’t that be a sight to see. Would the dogs be given uniforms?”
“The dogs could be ass-naked at the Generals’ table and still they’d look more respectable than Crimmins and his pig-head. Undermining my authority, getting my name tangled in the Creta tariff affair. Now it’s my headache to deal with. If I could just tie him to a spit and slow-roast him over the fire place in my office, I would. I mean who the f– who on earth would think–”
“Selim’s already asleep, Dear. He can’t hear you.”
“Thank you–who the FUCK would think it’s acceptable to use MY SEAL on official documents without consulting me?! I swear the only thing holding me back from– oh where is my night cap?”
“Ah, so it is. Oh it’s softer than it was last night.”
“I made sure it got washed with the fabric softener you like.”
“You’re truly the best. It’s so plush. Give it a feel, Dear.”
“Oh you tell me that every night. I promise I know how soft it is.” Another page turn. “You were saying something?”
“I was–oh, right. Where was I? Right, Crimmins”