5Two Strangers
He got the news late Wednesday night. There was a message waiting for him at the front desk of the motel where he had been staying. It was funny; he had never been close to his father, but at that moment nothing had mattered more. He had been researching at the library again and the new material he'd read that afternoon had been swimming in his mind. Now it was lost to him.
On the train to Moscow his thoughts turned to something rather peculiar, for him at least. Edward Elric was thinking about family. Yes, he had thought about Al and his mother before, and recently thoughts of his father fully occupied his mind, but he had never really thought about family itself. Sure, with Al there had been an unbreakable bond between them—for their mother as well—but with Hoenheim? Hell, he didn't even call the man his father.
So there was nothing to connect them, other than family. There was no real love, at least none close to what he felt for Al or mother…in fact, that bastard colonel probably held a higher place in his heart. There wasn't much respect either. How could he respect a man who had abandoned him as a child? His brother at birth? He couldn't understand how Al could be so forgiving.
But ever since that message, something had been nagging him. There was a tick in the back of his head reminding him of what family really was.
Well, that was just it. Family was family. That connection alone was enough.
Edward looked up as the compartment door slid open, revealing a man with short, brown hair. He wore all black and surveyed the compartment with eyes that resembled an ocean's riptide; they were steely blue in color and seemed to suck everything in at once.
The man hesitated, as if thinking quickly of alternative seating, and then spoke something in Russian.
"Sorry, I don't speak." The man lost no time replying, this time in English.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" The sentence was worded as a question, but it was clearly the opposite.
"Not at all." Edward gave the man a tense smile and returned his attention to the passing countryside.
He turned away a few moments later; Russia reminded him too much of home. Perhaps that was why his father had moved here, despite its remote location.
He regarded the man across from him instead. He too was looking out the window, not moving except to blink. Other than that, the man resembled a statue; he sat ramrod straight, shoulders back, hands laced in his lap. But what caught Edward's attention the most was the expression on his face—pensive and gravely serious—a face that reminded Edward of his own.
The man, sensing his gaze, turned to face him. Edward smiled, suddenly feeling the need for conversation.
"We never introduced ourselves. I'm Edward."
The stranger stared at him, face blank, as if trying to see through him…or to read his mind—Edward wasn't sure.
"Jason." Edward nodded.
"Nice to meet you." It was the stranger's turn to nod. He said no more, just went back to gazing out the window.
"So, what brings you to Moscow?"
Again, that stare. Then something flitted across the man's face, a shadow of something that looked dangerously like guilt.
"I have someone to apologize to."
Edward studied the man, returning the stare that never left his face.
"Yeah," he replied finally, "Same here."
Neither said another word for the rest of the trip. When the train pulled into the station at Moscow, they departed and went their separate ways. Edward forgot about the strange man he'd met, his thoughts again turning to those of his father.
Edward leaned back in the less-than-comfortable easy chair in the Moscow hospital waiting room, getting ready for a long night. Visiting hours were over now and all he could do was wait until they began again. He sighed, frustrated, and ran a hand through his hair; the service in this place really sucked. The nurse wouldn't even let him in to see his father. He was doing better, she said, but hospital rules wouldn't allow him entry. He had half a mind to just force his way in.
Yes, as much as he hated to admit it, he was that worried. Even the scientist in him telling him that his father would be all right was worried—no, scared shitless.
For the second time that day, the sound of an opening door drew his attention. Behind the glass of the entrance, a man in black limped up to the portal and stepped into the hospital. It was the same stranger from the train.
Said stranger approached the receptionist who had deflected Edward's attempt at seeing his father and leaned forward onto the counter, his right arm resting on its surface. Edward watched, intrigued by this man and perhaps a little wary. He wasn't naming any specifics, but he had broken more than a few laws in this world.
"I need medical assistance." The man's teeth were clenched in pain as he said this. It was then that Edward noticed the blood trailing the man's path from the door. The blond's eyebrows drew together sharply at the sight and at the amount that was dripping from the man's left arm.
"Do you have an insurance card?"
The man turned his head sideways and looked to the blood dripping from his fingertips. The act spoke clearly of desperation.
"Look, I really need a doctor."
The woman behind the counter may not have been able to see this man's wounded arm, and she might have been too stupid to notice his limp or the blood on the floor, but Edward was appalled that she did not pick up on the look of pure panic on the man's face.
"I'm sorry, but I can't help you without an insurance card." She smiled apologetically. "I'm sure you can understand."
The man gazed at her with sheer bewilderment.
"I'm not going to fucking—" He turned his head away from her and for a moment Edward thought he had been discovered eavesdropping, but then the man turned to face the lady again. "I'm not going to sue you!"
The lady just shook her head. The man swore, slamming his fist against the counter. This time when he averted his gaze, he noticed his train companion sitting in the waiting room, watching him. He blinked and stared, dazed for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed at the recognition, once he realized it wasn't his quickly failing eyesight tricking him, that is.
Everything had been going to plan. He had taken the train to Moscow after a clean escape and except for the stranger he'd shared a compartment with, he hadn't encountered anyone suspicious. And once he had conversed with that particular individual, his guard had dropped. Perhaps it had been the look in his eyes—those golden pools filled with so much longing—a look he'd caught in his own eyes more than once.
But somehow they had found him. He couldn't understand how, but they had. He supposed it didn't really matter how, with the hundreds of people and dozens of security cameras he'd passed. All that mattered then had been escaping. It was all that ever mattered.
But really, he was getting sloppy. He was tired of running, physically and mentally drained from this constant game of cat and mouse. He missed the peaceful feeling of his life with Marie. God, he missed Marie.
Still, he had forced himself to keep running, running toward living that life again. He'd been so close too; just one more mission and he could have fallen off the grid for a long, long while. Then he'd gotten shot and his hope of reaching that endeavor had plummeted. A part of him had wanted to just lie down and die, right then and there. That part of him wanted him to see Marie again, though he was sure that even death would keep him from her.
Again, he had forced himself to escape. He had barely made it this time, but the important part was that he had.
Though, apologizing to that Neski girl was like being shot all over again. He would never forget that look in her eyes or the tremble on her lips.
When he arrived at the hospital, he was more than a little worse for wear. His leg had swelled and he could barely stand on it now. Every time he took a step, pain would course from the right side of his body to his left where the motion jostled his wounded shoulder.
The lady receptionist did nothing to help. If he hadn't been in so much pain, he would probably have given in to the desire to strangle her. He had turned from her to try and keep calm and found his eyes locked with someone who made his own narrow in distrust.
There in the waiting room was the same blond from the train to Moscow. His body tensed as the teen rose and made his way over to the counter, his hand reaching into his overcoat. Jason's fingers twitched, ready to take him out, when the teen withdrew an insurance card. He slid it across to the receptionist, giving her a tight smile.
"Will this work?"
Jason exhaled the breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding and relaxed slightly. He had been sure that the boy would pull out a gun.
Still, meeting this kid twice in the same day put him on edge. He could not pass it off as mere coincidence. This life of his did not hold such an occurrence.
He looked young, but that could just be a new strategy for the ones who were after him. It wouldn't surprise him if this was true.
As the receptionist nodded and called for the doctor, Jason closed his eyes for a brief moment and clenched his teeth, trying to expel the pain from his shoulder. He imagined it dripping away with every drop of blood that fell from his fingertips.
Needless to say, it didn't work.
When he opened them, he found his vision blurred. He blinked, trying to clear it, but his exhaustion and the amount of blood he had lost prevented this. He could barely make out Edward's worried expression as the blond watched his obvious discomfort. Something in the back of his mind grasped that expression and lingered on it. An agent wouldn't be so concerned, would he? Not unless they needed him alive.
He was dizzy, barely holding onto his consciousness. His body felt lighter, like it wasn't exactly his. Someone was directing him into a wheelchair. His head lolled to the side and dipped to his chest. The last thing he saw before he gave in to the dark were those worried golden pools.
He awoke thrashing at the bed sheets restraining him. It was a moment before he realized he was in a bed and not immersed in water. The vision of Marie's ghostly face vanished as he opened his eyes. He wondered then what had woken him. Usually his nightmares continued from Marie's death to the various murders he'd committed, but this night—or day, he wasn't sure—he had been spared this torture.
Edward slept beside him in the easy chair, head resting to the side so that his blond hair fell into his eyes. Jason watched him, remembering the concern they'd held on his account, and wondered again whether he was friend or foe.
His deductions were interrupted as the teen's head rolled to the opposite side and his brow furrowed. His hands gripped the arm rests and his body tensed as his face broke out in perspiration.
"Al…no, give him back…Alphonse…" the boy whimpered in his sleep, "Brother, I'm sorry…I can't find my way home…"
Questions formulated in Jason's mind as he waited for the boy to say more: who had taken his brother? What kind of home was one you had to find again? The answers didn't come. He seemed to have drifted into a more peaceful sleep, and for that Jason wished him well; such a place was sometimes hard to find, and if this boy had the sort of past he did, then finding it was a rare thing indeed.
The stranger awoke a little less than an hour later. For a moment those golden orbs held the same displacement that he himself had experienced, but once he recognized the man in the hospital bed he relaxed. In fact, he frowned, as if annoyed by where he was.
"Thank you for your help." The blond smiled sheepishly and rubbed a hand behind his neck.
"It was no trouble. The receptionist was a bitch to me too. Though, I had to tell them you were my uncle. Hope you don't mind."
Jason shook his head, peering at the boy with a thoughtful air. He showed none of the vulnerability that he had from his dream. Every moment, it seemed Jason found a little more of himself inside of this boy.
"What is it?" Edward asked. The man was staring at him with those penetrating blue eyes. It was quite unnerving; those steely spheres seemed to have the ability to see right through him.
"You were talking in your sleep."
Edward paled almost immediately. What had he said? Something to merit that consuming gaze, he was sure. Still, it couldn't hurt to ask.
"What did I say?" It was a moment before the stranger answered.
"You were crying out to your brother…apologizing."
"Oh." There was an awkward silence, and then the man spoke up again.
"Where are you from?"
Ed chuckled; he had a feeling this man was acting on whatever he'd revealed in his sleep. He was definitely not the sociable type.
"A long, long ways from here." The man gave him an expectant look that clearly asked for something more specific, so he continued. "I come from a little town called Resembool."
Resembool. He'd never heard of it. In all his knowledge of the world and of languages and cultures, he couldn't even place a possible origin. It would have to remain a mystery; he wasn't going to press for more answers when this boy had all but saved his life.
He looked away to the window, turning his thoughts to where he was. A hospital; was it really safe? His pursuers knew he was injured. They could very easily find him here. The sooner he left, the better.
"So, where are you from?" the boy was asking. Jason returned his attention to the blond, giving him a blank stare. He turned his head away when he answered, unable to keep eye contact for some unfathomable reason.
"I don't have a home," he replied, then feeling the need to explain, "Or if I do, I've forgotten it." The boy nodded.
"I know the feeling."
Did he? He just said he had a home. Confusion wasn't a common feeling for Jason; he was the kind of man who could figure out most anything. But confusion came now, full blast. This boy seemed to have a knack for leaving him so.
The emotion must have found its way to his face, because the boy continued.
"My mother died when my brother and I were just kids. We…couldn't stand to stay in that house alone, so…we burnt it down and left." The boy smiled and shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. But Jason could tell—the memory was tearing him up inside and it had been doing so for however long it had existed.
"Where is your brother now?" Again, a shrug.
"He's home, I suppose. I'm not really sure."
Something flitted across the stranger's face—was it doubt, fear, guilt? Jason wasn't sure, but he could tell that whatever it was, it had been bothering the boy for quite some time.
"Alphonse…it means 'noble and eager', but also 'ready for battle'." The boy broke out in a wide grin.
"Yup, that sounds like Al."
Why was he telling him this? It wasn't as if he had any right to know. It wasn't as if he had given anything in return. There had been no equivalent exchange. Why then? Was it because he had kept it inside for far too long? Was it because he had no personal connection with this man? Was it because he feared for his father's life, and needed something to distract him from that course of thought?
No, he reasoned, it was something more subtle. It was the look in his eyes, the one that mirrored his own. He was a lost soul, a kindred spirit.
They sat in silence until dawn broke. Edward dozed now and then, but mostly he was awake, watching the clock. When morning finally came and visiting times began, he excused himself from the stranger's company and rushed to the room that held his father.
Hoenheim was awake and sitting up in bed, eating the breakfast the nurse had brought him. He was a bit pale, but other than that he looked alright. Edward sighed, glad that his concern had been unnecessary.
"Hello son," the man greeted as he entered.
"Hello…dad."
The elder looked stunned for a moment before he smiled. He obviously hadn't been expecting such a warm welcome, nor what came next.
Edward had hesitated in saying it, had squirmed under the pressure he'd put on himself, but finally he did say what he came to.
"I, uh…did some thinking on the way here…on the train," he began, looking to the floor, the window—anywhere but his father's eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to organize his words, and then braved those familiar golden pools. "I want to apologize for…not being the best son I could be, or, well…for never forgiving you even after I knew why you left us. I uh, needed to tell you that, and…that I forgive you."
For the second time that morning, Hoenheim was speechless. Then tears filled those wrinkle-lined eyes and he smiled, as if all his dreams had come true this day. Edward, however, suddenly felt very agitated and the need for him to change the subject pressed hard.
"So, uh, how are you doing? I've been here since last night, but the idiot lady wouldn't let me in, though I guess it's alright since I helped someo—"
"Thank you," Hoenheim interrupted, his smile only growing, "I've been waiting to hear that from you for a long time, but I had all but given up hope when I got sick. This body of mine is wearing out fast, but I do have a little time left, I think."
When Edward had left the room that morning, Jason hadn't really thought anything of it. The boy had informed him of where he would be, should he need him. It had been said as a courtesy—neither of them had expected the offer to be taken up on.
Then Jason had gotten that anxious twist in the pit of his stomach. He tried to outlast the feeling, to give his body more time to rest, but after five minutes he had gotten so antsy he hadn't been able to bear lying around anymore. Being a man who always had a path in mind, he had decided that the time had come to leave this hospital behind. It was very likely that the feeling in his gut was a premature instinct warning him of danger.
He wasn't normally the type of man who gave goodbyes, but today the circumstances called for it. He needed to ask the boy one last favor, and either way he didn't want him to worry; Edward seemed to do enough of that already.
He had stopped outside the hospital room the blond had told him about. There were voices coming from within and he hadn't wanted to intrude. From what the boy had told him, he had guessed that the man who was bedridden in this room was the one who the blond had needed to apologize to. And if this boy was anything like himself, then apologies did not come easily.
He really hadn't meant to eavesdrop, he just had abnormally good hearing. The voices from inside the room had floated outside to meet his ears of their own accord. Though he would admit that after hearing just a sample of the pair's conversation, he hadn't been able to turn away.
"We need to get you home," Edward was saying, "There has to be a cure! If I could just research it, maybe experiment a little—" There was a pause, and then a noise that sounded an awful lot like Edward's fist slamming down on some unfortunate surface. "Damnit! There has to be something alchemy can do!"
"Edward, I've searched this world and ours for a cure and I still haven't found an alternative."
"But it's not fair!"
"Life is never fair for the wicked. We knew when we were making the philosopher's stone that what we were doing was evil. We knew it went against the flow of life. You knew it too, and so did Alphonse." The man sighed. "But we still tried, didn't we? To do the impossible."
"But—"
"This is my equivalent exchange, son. There's no escaping that. My soul is burning this body of mine from the inside out and very soon it will break. Until that happens, I hope I can at least help you home."
There was a brief silence, and then:
"I don't want your help!"
Edward stormed out of the hospital room, slamming the door behind him. He was angry, and as much as he wanted to blame this on his bastard father, he just…couldn't. It was obviously not his fault. Edward was only angry because the man who had abandoned him for nearly thirteen years, who had finally come back into his life, was dying, and there was nothing he could do. He wasn't sure that he could return to Amestris, and if his father died then that would mean he would be alone again.
The sound of rumpling clothes drew his attention to the man leaning against the wall, three feet or so from where he was standing. His face paled. He was about to question the man, perhaps berate him for eavesdropping (for the look on the man's face clearly showed he had been), when he spoke up.
"I wanted to let you know that I am leaving." Edward opened his mouth, but the man left no room for a response. "I also wanted to ask if you could…keep the fact that we met a secret. I don't want anyone knowing I was here. It's better off if they think I'm dead."
Edward nodded, about to ask the man a favor of his own, when again he continued.
"This will be our equivalent exchange."