AN: This was written quite a while ago and someone thought I should post it.
…
Far Too Late
"Professor." Sephiroth regarded the man before him with quiet calculation. His eyes were slightly unfocused, seemingly staring far beyond the silver rims of his glasses, and lacking the hard glint they usually held. The man's hair was damp and he could smell the scent of jasmine floating about the room. Sephiroth suppressed his smile; the professor was having one of his better days. A walking mass of complexes, indeed.
"Sit."
He did as commanded, the need to respond accordingly ingrained into his being from day one, but today he felt no resentment. A warm hand touched his arm and Hojo made a flapping motion. Sighing, Sephiroth pulled his hair over his shoulder so the scientist could listen to his breathing. "Why do you not simply cut it?" he asked quietly.
Hojo didn't reply for a long time, choosing to instead scribble numbers and shake his head. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to."
The topic ended there.
As expected, he dropped his confusion, understanding that this was one topic Hojo would never elaborate on; however, why he seemed to think Sephiroth understood was somewhat bothersome to the General.
He sat quietly, adjusting when prompted, and watching the professor as he gently prodded at old scars and his right shoulder. He winced slightly when the man ran a finger down his shoulder blade and Hojo hummed to himself, scribbling something else.
"You may leave."
When the professor turned his back to him, Sephiroth tugged the coat back on, righting his gloves. "Would you like to have dinner?"
Silence fell as the two men drifted around in their thoughts. Usually, Sephiroth offered a cup of tea but today that had somehow felt... insubstantial. When Hojo gave a single nod of acceptance, Sephiroth slipped off the metal table and waited as the man took off the lab coat, revealing a long sleeved button down in a soft shade of honey brown and black slacks. He held the door open and the two disappeared down the hall.
. . .
"Ask your question." Hojo's lips pursed but he sat back in his chair, hands around the warm teacup.
The General bit back a frown. Hojo read him better than he'd anticipated. It was to be expected, somewhat; after all the man detailed almost every aspect of his life obsessively.
"Come now, boy." He waved a hand for Sephiroth to get on with it.
"Why do you use jasmine shampoo?"
The professor blinked at him, lips tightening further and Sephiroth almost regretted asking. "My wife used to use such a thing... frivolous," he muttered. "It is simply a reminder."
Sephiroth took the answer with a very slight nod and they finished their dinner. Most of their conversation revolved around any upcoming treatments and possibly abnormal responses in the newest batch of SOLDIER Thirds.
. . .
He was loath to admit it, but the young experiment's question had shocked him. Specimen S usually questioned the upcoming procedures. He supposed he could attribute it to the young blond the man had been distracting himself with lately... fanciful... just like his mother.
The professor sighed heavily. "He is far too much like you, darling..."
Equal parts.
With a snap, he shut the door to his office and reached for the comforting weight of the white lab coat. "Specimen S's personality is purely a product of his purpose in life."
Specimen S was doing exactly what he was supposed to do. He was a tool, a weapon, and Hojo nothing more than his designer. A designer that let a frivolous wish start a chain reaction in the specimen's head. He snorted in disgust at his own weakness; his own inability to destroy a familiar image.
His fingers tugged once on the long strands and the soft scent of flowers once again filled the room. "You were a bad influence, my dear."
A giggle flickered through his mind and the professor felt his lips twitch in what he was sure would be a mangled smile.
Bad is solely in the definition you choose to give it.
"Hmph. I am blaming you for any further faults within Specimen S's design."
Specimen S... Hojo, Sephiroth is your son. He didn't miss the way her gentle voice stressed the importance of his specimen's given name, nor the way she spat his label with reserved distaste. He brushed it aside with a rough shake of his head.
"Don't be a fool, Lucrecia. He is no more my son than I am his father," he muttered. It was far too late for Specimen S to be anything more than Specimen S.
…
The End