I totally wasn't in the zone when I wrote this, therefore it=sucks. And it's a pity I'm not much of a re-writer. :/...
Anyhow, there is so much angst and introspection done on the relationship between Wrath and Izumi, and it lead me to wonder how Sig feels about the whole thing. Then, that bunny grew into a whole introspective thing on his character.
Spoilers- For the whole freakin series, yo. Rating- G,G,G...
Sig-centric, with a little Wrath-ness thrown in for good measure.
Totally unbeta'd, spellchecked, or even re-read. I'm too lazy to even bother.
Terms of Endearment
Sig Curtis was a man of few words. While those who met him might be lead to believe that this meant he was also a man of few thoughts and took him for slow, simply didn't understand. Juxtaposed with his strikingly beautiful young wife, a brilliant scientist and prolific fountainhead of knowledge, he really did appear to be the simple one of the two; it really was difficult to believe that such a plain man, a butcher in fact, could have any intelligent grasp of complex subjects, let alone of the alchemy his wife so avidly dabbled in and pushed the limits of.
Sig knew what people thought of him, and he serenely accepted it, knowing that it was better that way if they took him for a fool. He watched, understood, accepted, protected; it was his vigilant way of life. He was overlooked, but always present, seeing the difference between a good man and a bad man with striking introspective; comprehending the world around him; discerning truths and lies, and all that lay in between. And while he never ventured to even open the dusty pages of any of the oft used textbooks that adorned the shelves of the study, he even comprehended his wife's alchemy, only by way of observing and understanding, as he did for so many other things. He didn't have a grasp of the arithmetic or the finer details, and yet from it's basic principals, he could bring to few words the ultimate truth of it's nature, just as Izumi brought forth in her favored speeches and soliloquies, so often eloquently delivered with fiery passion.
Sig Curtis knew people. Strikingly, uncannily, he could root his way to the core of human emotion, and perhaps with even greater wisdom, he knew when to and not to act upon it. Comforting only with his presence was often enough, and his greatest wisdom was knowing just how much he was incapable of understanding. He remembered when Izumi came to him one fateful night, soaked from the rain, crying like a child, with blood staining her clothes, and he knew for the first time, that in spite of his constant desire to comfort her, he would never know her pain. It was his first instinct to blame himself for not having seen how much it tormented her not to have a child; that he was a fool for believing that he could relate to her pain with his relatively miniscule sorrow. He could only remain with her through all her incomprehensible suffering, and forgive her, as well as himself. He had to live.
He knew that she worried over the child, even now when finding Edward and nurturing Alphonse were meant to be their first priorities. He could sense her anxiety; almost physically grasp her unshed tears of guilt; blaming herself for his miserable existance, hating herself for letting her heart be torn between her surrogate sons who loved her, and the abomination who wanted her dead. He knew her worry, for it also plagued his mind.
He knew the child was there, even when nobody else did. He could catch glimpses of the boy in the passive way of observation he possessed; darting behind trees, trying to blend within a crowd, always present, as though some lingering curiosity kept him drawn to the home he could never have; to the people he could never love. He knew that the child wasn't human, and somehow still was able to conjure up pity deep within his own gulity heart for the creation that was just as much his as his wife's. He took passive action on that emotion that stood somewhere between love and guilt, by taking note of where the boy stayed, and ignoring him even when he knew he was being followed. He continued his life as though unaffected by the ghostly presence who watched him, often for hours at a time in his daily activities, perhaps somehow trying to size up human behavior.
He knew with the child's stubborn mentality, that the boy once called Wrath would avoid contact with people as much as possible. Sig watched and remembered all his regular haunts, and places he chose to sleep, decidedly far away from human establishment. He found rest only in knowing where the child was, and comfort in knowing he was the only one.
It wasn't until frost came, and the air bit of winter's warning that he took it upon himself to visit the place where Wrath slept. He found the boy curled and shivering, but still soundly sleeping at the base of an old oak tree on the outskirts of town. The child slept, almost unaware of the world, his hair wild and unkempt, nearly swimming in his obviously stolen clothes that were several sizes too large for him. Sig knelt down, and with great care, eased his arms beneath the slender sleeping frame. In a moment of beauty that only he could see, for the first time, Sig could lovingly hold the child that would have been his son.
Wrath awoke in a shed, wrapped in warm blankets and nested atop a pile of billowy straw. He blinked, rubbing at his temple, not understanding why it was so dark. In a deep breath, it came to him. The tattered blankets smelled of that woman, and beside him was a bowl of lukewarm soup and a roll of bread. He could vaguely remember the arms that held him, the silent presence of that man who might have been his father if fate had been kinder. He blinked again, and didn't know what to think. He only knew that he couldn't feel hate as he wished he could have.
Sig ignored the shadow that swallowed the light of the doorway into his shop, and continued his work, dilligently slicing and separating as though he didn't know a thing about who had just entered. He breathed, existed, continued; that was enough for him. The boy made two fists, and lowered his chin, glaring forward indignantly, not quite certain how to say...
"Hey, old man!" He called. And Sig looked up, stared into the fiery gaze of the boy who was not his son, for once letting his acknowlegement be known. Wrath pursed his lip, furrowed his brow, and letting that serve as the only conversation he wished to engage in, turned on his heel and quickly left.
Sig Curtis was a man of few words. It made sense then, really, that no greater amassment of words had ever touched him so.