Title: Blood of my Blood
Rating: G, I guess.
Warnings: Spoilers for the entire series. devils_devotion's bunny made me DO IT!
Pairings: NOOOONE!
Summary: Hoenheim thinks back on his life and his sons, while trying to get Edward to talk to him. Meh, I'm terrible at summaries.



Blood of my Blood, by Toffee


“I’m going to make myself a cup of coffee. Would you like some?”

“Whatever.”

“One or two spoonfuls of su—“

“Two.”

*

When the warm little bundle was placed in his arms, his first thought had been: this is not my son.

It subsided somewhat when he saw her smiling face, but it would not fade. The pain of her renewed ardour would not fade either. Long ago, she had said ‘I love you’ at every hour of the day, touching his dark brown hair with reverence. Now his hair was gold, and if she said anything at all, it was drowned in lust. That this body – not his body – had been the one to ultimately impregnate her was an insult he could not tolerate.

“What shall me call him?” She had asked, looking tired but satisfied, grinning with that particular smugness only she could achieve.

Hoenheim looked at the baby boy and shivered when wide gold eyes stared back at him. His own eyes hadn’t been gold, they had been grey. This child didn’t look like his mother at all, it looked like him. But he was not himself, and so, this child could not be his. “I don’t know, Dante. Any name will suit him.”

Her frown transmitted her displeasure as loudly as the infant’s cries. He numbly handed the squirming pounds of jelly-soft flesh back into her arms and looked away. It had struck him like a bolt that it was a stranger’s body making love to his wife now, and she loved it, gave herself fully into it. It was a stranger’s blood and flesh that had engendered that baby, not his own.

That is not my son.

Years had passed and he still could not look back on that moment of fear and revulsion without a shiver. The growing child, all golden and pale, nurtured by Dante’s overprotective zeal and his own disinterest, had been the living proof of all that he had lost. That boy, which Dante had named after him in unknowing cruelty, had been a soul brought into the world by the blood and flesh of Dante’s body, and this body. Not his; never his.

That had been ages ago, and it still hurt.

*

Now, years and years since, trapped in a world and a life that were not his – again – he looks back on his firstborn son and wonders. What…if?

“Ah, I feel like some coffee after all this hard work. Want a cup?” In truth, Hoenheim hates coffee with a passion he cannot being to explain. It’s bitter, murky and leaves an acid taste on his tongue. Coffee is, quite possibly, the worst discovery in the history of mankind. Naturally, Edward loves it.

“Sure, whatever.” A shrug and an noncommittal reply is the most he gets, at the best of times.

It is a feeble attempt at bonding, but Hoenheim knows that if he were to try and reach out in a more overt way, rejection would be instant. So he drinks his coffee, or as much of it as he can, while Edward guzzles his cup down with characteristic lack of grace.

The boy has grown in the past year and a half, the chill air of Munich, the frozen cobblestone roads and steel-grey clouds seem to suit Edward, even though he claims to hate them. Hoenheim can see the change in his body, in the way his shoulder has filled out, his back broadened. Edward’s Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks the coffee, eyes never leaving the rocketry notes he holds in his hand. Hoenheim can only stare into the muddy depths of his cup and muster the courage to swallow that last, thick and grainy gulp.

“So… how are your studies coming along?”

After coffee, Ed might – on his good days – condescend to give him more than monosyllabic replies.

*

After Dante, only Trisha knew his name. She spoke it sometimes, when the nights were moonlit and not even the darkness could dim his reflection in the mirror. At such times, she would whisper his name and he would feel more like himself. He would feel that this woman knew him, and loved him, not just this body nor this new person that he was. When Trisha looked at him, Hoenheim felt she was seeing him as Dante had once seen him, gangly and thin, with freckled cheeks and glossy brown hair. Him.

Pinako was furious, and right to be so. She had known him for a long time, and did not cherish the prospect of Sarah’s childhood friend and the Hoenheim of Light being together. Doubtless, Pinako remembered a time when she wore pigtails and he had dangled her legs over his knees. She knew that he had been around long before that, and would be still here long after those wrinkles of hers sucked her life dry. All she ever said was ‘not Sarah… anyone but my daughter’.

So it wasn’t Sarah after all.

*

“Ah… I think coffee is in order. Want some?”

A shrug. “Why not?”

The window is open and a cold wind bites Edward’s cheeks. Hoenheim watches them redden, watches gold eyes turn to him. He thinks this is what this body must have looked like at 17, even if Ed will probably never reach his father’s present height. His first son had. They look a lot like each other, that boy and this one, a lot like him. Mirror images of the man whose body he stole, or Dante stole, for him.

When he presses the steaming cup into metallic fingers and odd pain tugs at his chest, a guilt he can no longer repress, and he remembers…

*

Dante, crying. Dante, crouched over the bed, breaths heaving in animalistic anguish.

For Hoenheim there had only been a dark sense of relief, of release. When those gold eyes dulled at last, he had felt that the loss of that soul affirmed his own life. To bring that boy - that was not his - into this world had been a mistake, by making love to his wife in this body, he had made himself a cuckold. Now it was over.

Or it should have been.

What Dante did with what was left of the Stone, was bring back the flesh, only the flesh; and that body which lay in distorted, haphazard patches before them, had nothing of Hoenheim’s. If the living boy had not been his own, this creature was even less related to him, less important, less of a son.

*

Edward sleeps with his limbs flung out even when it is cold. Hoenheim drapes another blanket over that smallish form, wondering if the automail chills his skin further. His golden hair is a rich spillage against the pillow, and it reminds him of how Trisha’s hair looked in the moonlight.

He can still taste coffee at the back of his mouth. Bitter.

*

When the warm little bundle is placed in his arms he looks up at her helplessly. He had hoped it would look like the mother, he had hoped for a little girl with seaweed eyes and auburn tresses, but it’s not. For a moment he fears it is some sort of joke, and Dante has snuck into the room and placed their dead baby into his arms. The resemblance is fiercely clear, to his body and that first son.

Again, the terrible thought: this is not my child.

But the woman holding it is his wife, and he undoubtedly loves her. She loves the boy, and the boy is hers. It has Trisha’s blood in it, and a piece of Trisha’s soul. He can endure that, and love it for what it is. Again, he has brought into the world the progeny of another man, children who will bear the personality traits and physical quirks of someone other than him.

Those gold eyes accuse him of murder whenever they open. He can hear them whisper, where is my father? Where is my real father?

He is dead, his soul is consumed. All that is left is flesh, only flesh.

*

“Ah, round about time for some coffee. Care for a cup?” If only he could summon the courage to offer him coffee and not have to drink it himself, as an excuse to get closer.

Edward gives him a disturbingly intense sidelong glance. “Yeah, sure.”

Hoenheim finds himself unable to bear the weight of those eyes. Heavier than gold, he thinks; that boy’s eyes are weighted down by too much knowledge and an intellect to match. He sets the kettle over the fire and leans back into a chair, feeling his body ache with the cold. It hurts to breathe now, sometimes, and it becomes more and more of an effort to move. He does not want to give though, not now. After having wasted so much time, he needs to cherish these last few moments with Edward, before the shadows claim him forever.

“Old man, old man!” Hoenheim starts, finding Edward leaning over him. “You dozed off, old man.”

A warm mug is gruffly pressed into his hands before Edward goes back to sit on the moth-infested couch. The last rays of sunlight slant through the buildings around them, fading slabs of gold that pierce Edward’s eyes and make them seem… different.

There is a lot of Trisha in him. She was the determined one, not him. Proof of it was that she was capable of loving him, even though… even though…

*

The second child looked more like Trisha, but not quite right. Hoenheim suspected that the flaxen hair and pale eyes could be traced back to this body’s parents. When they brought him home, Edward toddled over and collapsed into his father’s arms. Trisha had tried very hard to make it clear to him that there would be no preference, and she loved them both.

Hoenheim felt indescribably jealous of both children.

Her love for them terrified him, as Dante’s love for her son had terrified him. The women he loved, touching and loving other men, other boys. He tried to find traces of himself in them, but the more he looked, the more he saw a stranger’s face staring back at him.

His body was long gone and his soul had been transplanted into a vessel never meant for it. These children, any children he might conceive, would not be his child. He tried to imagine them as adopted, to see if that made it better.

It didn’t, not when Trisha kissed Alphonse and whispered endearments to him.

He wanted to say to her then: I was glad my first son died, because he was not really my child, nor are these. We will never have any children together, Trisha.

But he couldn’t say that to her, nor could he explain why the more Edward loved him, the more he was repelled. It hurt that he could not hold the boy and feel a father. It hurt that he would never have children of his own.

Tricia smiled when he said he needed time to think: some time away. Hoenheim suspected she knew… that he might not come back after all.

*

“You… are moving around slower, lately. Finally rotting away, old man?” Hoenheim feels the urge to cry, but resists. Edward’s baiting is nothing new and it sounds curiously free of rancour, at least on this occasion.

“You’re not free of me yet, boy.”

Edward’s cocky grin is warm, like sunlight. He feels less cold when those golden eyes lose their edge. It feels good, to sink back into the couch.

“Coffee would be nice…” He tentatively presses, because he’s afraid of offering coffee to Edward. That would be too much like being kind, and it would not work.

“Go do it yourself, then, old man!”

*

Envy. Dante’s name for him was very, very appropriate.

The monster chased him around and Hoenheim was almost glad he had left, because Trisha would be safe. To some degree, he felt relieved that those two boys would be safe as well. He could picture their futures already. They would live long, nondescript lives, like the one the lamented owner of his body had lead until he was hired as Ms Dante’s butler. Lives like that… he had no interest in seeing. At least Trisha would be proud.

There was much he had not contemplated. Had not dared to consider.

He was gone, he didn’t see. He never heard of their interest in Alchemy, of their abnormal talent and keen little minds. He never heard of their scrapes and games, of how they played at adventure and piracy. He did not hear their dreams and ideals, nor did he see them grow. When news came of Trisha’s death, he did not have the heart to return and reclaim something that wasn’t his in the first place.

Let Pinako deal with that.

Because he was gone, he wasn’t there to see them grow, and find himself reflected in their faces. He never knew how frighteningly like him they were until it was too late to save them from their father’s legacy. Years later, when he saw them at last, he thought his heart would break. Alphonse, trapped in his old suit of armour, and Edward, missing limbs and walking with eyes full of blood and unwanted depth.

He knew, as soon as he saw them.

In a rush of excruciating pain, anger and fear, he understood that these were his children. Like most important knowledge, it came too late.

*

He knows he has been a fool all his life, to have let himself believe that blood and flesh have some impact on the nature of souls. He knows now that he was a fool, because everyday that passes Edward acts more and more like him, driven and destructive to a fault. He is also – thank the gods- passionate and fair, like Trisha always was.

This is his son, a part of his soul and his very nature. He wants to be a part of his life now, wants to hold some of that wild, blazing power Edward emanates and bask in it. He needs to be a father, in whatever way is possible.

But it hurts to move.

He fears that Edward won’t care, that it is – which is true – too late to make amends, too late to even try to care. The boy is scarred to the bone on the subject of his father and Hoenheim aches whenever he sees the evidence of these wounds. If he had stayed, if he had tried… what if? – Trisha might be alive, he might have taught them Alchemy and its boundaries. His children might not have had to go through the Hell his own cowardice had put them through.

He might have been a father.

“What’s with the long face, old man?” Sourly asked, Edward tosses the physics book on the table and rubs his eyes tiredly. Hoenheim can feel his desperation, he can taste the bitterness of too much studying and the ebbing of is son’s faith.

“I hate snow,” Hoenheim acidly returns, and wishes he hadn’t. Edward frowns and looks away. Sometimes, he wonders if his son understand how hard he tries to reach out to him, he wonders if Ed sees the little gestures or even cares. He wonders if Ed would have liked his older half-brother, had things been different.

Edward gets up and opens the window to lean out, snowflakes catching in his hair. His breath fogs out into the darkening afternoon as he rubs his flesh and metal hands together. It’s useless, that won’t heat his fingers up at all.

Hoenheim takes a deep breath, starting to get up. “I feel like a cup of coffee,” he says at last, because it’s all he can do. It’s the only way in which he knows how to approach his son, and he has so little time left.

Edward sighs and rubs his cold nose with his right hand. “Nonsense, you hate coffee.”

Hoenheim blinks, nonplussed. “What?”

“You hate coffee, you hardly manage to drink a cup whenever you brew it, and you only brew it when I’m here.”

The older man feels very young and caught at a heinous lie. “Am I that transparent?”

“Sort of,” Edward agrees, without turning to face him. “If you don’t like the damned thing, don’t drink it. Make yourself tea.”

“I don’t like hot drinks,” he admits weakly.

“I know, ” Edward surprises him again. He turns around to look at him, and his eyes are both sad and angry. “I know.”

It’s terrifying to realise how grown up his son is now, how unpredictably mature and secretive, how aware of the world around him. Edward has turned into a fine man and it is painful to acknowledge that it is no thanks to him.

Still, this boy is his son, and Hoenheim is so afraid of loosing what little he has left…

“But I would still like it…” Ed breaks the silence, turning around to look out the window again. “… if you would make me cup of coffee.”

As the people of this world would say: the Mountain has come to Mohammed.

His throat feels tight, and the ache in his lungs has nothing to do with his decaying body. “Why?” He croaks, letting Ed interpret what he wants in that question. There are too many things he’d like to ask, and nothing comes out.

Edward doesn’t turn around, but he shrugs as he always does. “Because… we don’t have that much time, do we?” He hunches in a bit, and then straightens again to glare at him with an fragmented, brokenly superior grin. “I’ll be back in Amestris in no time at all, you see?”

(Where is my father?)

(He is dying, child)

“Ah, yes, how could I forget? Two spoonfuls of sugar, then?”

“Whatever.”

It takes a few moments for the water to boil, and then he lets the coffee rest before pouring it into a cup, taking extra care with this precious, precious offering of peace. Edward receives the cup and takes a sip, wincing as he scalds his cold chafed lips. The open window lets in too much cold air, but it is just as well. It cools Hoenheim’s burning face.

He son’s squared shoulders and determined gaze remind him of another young man he knew: a boy with a long brown ponytail and grey eyes. A boy whose freckles made him feel stupid and were a subject better left unmentioned. He can see that long lost boy in Edward as clear as day, and realises that he could also see traces of that boy in Alphonse, caged in metal as he was the last time they met. Even then, that boy also was his son.

When Edward takes another sip of coffee and smiles, to indicate that it is good, Hoenheim knows that he has won because this boy relented, because this boy is now a man, and he mourns, for all that could have been, and all that is not. He mourns specially for that dead child he never loved, who deserved so much more.

He mourns for Edward most of all, because Hoenheim knows that his son is aware of the truth, that his father will have crossed the Gates of shadow long before Edward Elric can find his way home.



Once again, my brains have been eaten by someone else's bunny. Not so bad though. Lookie! I'm still capable of writing GEN! XD