Chapter Text
Vanya didn’t pay much attention to the gentle words Mom was giving her, meaningless whispers of comfort and reassurance. Her hand, now bandaged in crisp white, rested in her lap, unfeeling, open. Accidents happen. You’ll be good as new in no time.
No one had come to visit her. Mom said something about training, and Vanya turned her face away.
Ben wouldn’t come if it would risk getting in trouble, ‘cause Ben hated being in trouble.
And Five… well, she thought she had a feeling about where Five might be.
“How about I make you a hot chocolate?” Grace said, something like desperation edging into her almost-human voice when Vanya continually refused to acknowledge her. She probably thought Vanya was in shock or something, but she wasn’t.
Was she being insensitive?
Yes, she decided. It was unfair for her to be acting like this – sullen, like a child. Grace didn’t do anything wrong.
“Sure, Mom,” she said, trying not to let too much resentment seep into her words. “Make two?” She had a feeling she would need two.
She watched from underneath her bangs as Grace nodded and happily clicked her way out of the infirmary and shut the door behind her. She looked back down. The sunlight oozing from the high windows cast a sickly yellow glow on Vanya’s shoes.
Now, Vanya was alone.
She stared at the bandage, at the pure whiteness of it. Underneath, she knew there was a wound, deep and maybe permanent, but she couldn’t see it, or feel it. Soon the pain would return. Soon, this would be real.
Vanya felt her lip quivering and realised that the tears were coming again - pathetic. Silently, she hid her face in her elbow and cried there, letting the itchy fabric of her blazer absorb the evidence of her weakness. No one was there to watch.
And then when she was all cried out, her chest no longer heaving sobs, her face probably a humiliating blotchy red, she called out, “Five?” in a quavery voice. Half-hoping, half-afraid.
A pause. The hallway clock ticked impatiently, and after seven seconds of waiting, the infirmary door cracked open. Five’s pale face – or just half of it – peeked around the heavy wood. He didn’t say anything, and just looked at her with big wet eyes. She had been right.
“Come over here,” Vanya said, sighing. She sniffled again and wiped her running nose on her sleeve, and a flash of disgust flickered in Five’s expression, finding it just gross enough that he apparently decided to do what she said. He closed the door, and it made a too-loud noise.
Standing in the yellow light, unsure of himself, he looked so different than he had that morning. His hands, usually tense by his sides or tucked into his pockets smugly, hung like dead weights. “Hi, Vanya,” he said, sounding kind of miserable.
“Come,” she said again, beckoning, and then winced at the hesitation in his steps. Five probably didn’t even want to be here. But he came anyway.
He sat on the wooden chair beside her, so small, wary, and unlike himself. That’s what happened when you break things and hurt people, Vanya thought. Ben was proof of that. Five’s eyes never left her injured hand, and she knew what he was going to say before he said it.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.” Because of the rumour.
“But it will.”
“Yeah,” she said, biting the inside of her mouth. “It will.”
She held out the bandaged hand and he looked at it closely, not touching, looking for what she didn’t know. Examining the quality of Mom’s bandaging skills, maybe. He said, quietly, “How long will it take it heal?”
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, feeling hot tears rise in her throat again. “I wasn’t listening when she said.”
She thought she might start crying again, and it must have showed on her face, because Five stared at her with growing horror. “Vanya…”
“I don’t know!” All her feelings twisted around inside of her like a bowl of writhing snakes. Hurt, betrayal, anger, sadness. Mostly sadness. “Why are you still here? I thought you would have time travelled your way out of this mess.” She sounds pitifully small, though the words had sounded furious in her head.
“I thought about it.” Of course he did. “But I’m still here.”
“I guess you are.”
“Seven, don’t cry.”
She grimaced, the emotions bitter on her tongue. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Five frowned, looking pained. “Stop.”
It didn’t help, because of course it wouldn’t. When the tears finally did start to drip down her face again, she looked back down at her shoes, willing them to stop. Five hated it whenever she cried. Or apologized for crying. She couldn’t do anything right.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said in a rush, sounding constricted. “It was my fault, I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.” And he took the handkerchief that he tended to carry on him – for this express purpose, it seemed – and shoved it at her, dropping it in her hand and moving back like she might bite his arm.
It was a big deal for Five to say please. But Vanya, overcome with disappointment and a general cloying sense of sadness that seemed to hang around her like a fog, shut her eyes and hunched over further. A faint ache had started to build in the palm of her hand. She squeezed the handkerchief into a fist. “You can’t.”
“I will.”
“You won’t,” she said hotly, and practically felt him crumble beside her.
“I’ll try,” he said hopelessly. But it’s his fault she was hurting. It’s his fault she wouldn’t be able to—
“You stabbed me,” she cried, and wiped her uninjured hand over her face, turning and glaring at him. “You – you asshole!”
“You just swore.”
“Because I’m mad at you. Dickhead.”
“I said I was sorry!” Vanya knew her brother too well to think he was actually angry. The words dripped with desperation. Impatience, for her to forgive him and for things to go back to normal. Always impatient.
“Why did you do it, anyway? Was it worth it?”
“I don’t know,” he said, exhaling. “I just wanted – him to pay attention to me. To listen. Take me seriously. I wasn’t looking—” He hunched over and sulked, looking at the floor, trailing off. She understood it, she supposed. “And no, it wasn’t, idiot.”
“That’s so lame,” she said anyway, sniffling. She stopped. “You know I can’t – you know the—” The words creaked and broke and she couldn’t finish.
“The violin.” Five’s mouth wobbled, and he swallowed. “I know.”
“Do you, though?” Vanya waved her bandaged hand in his face, now throbbing, feeling her expression contort in response to the pain. He grabbed her wrist.
“Stop,” he hissed. “I do know. I do. I’m sorry!”
“I know you’re sorry,” Vanya wailed, pulling her arm away and burying her face in her normal hand, in the handkerchief, so he didn’t have to watch her cry. It smelled like soap. Her hand hurt. “I get it, Five.”
Suddenly, he was hugging her with awkward arms around her shoulders. He was warm from standing in the sun. She froze. After a few excruciating seconds – Five had never been a great hugger – he said in a very weak voice, “Vanya, how do I fix it?” Impatient, as always.
She hesitated, and he sighed and dropped his head onto her shoulder. She answered, muffled from his arms squishing against her face, “Just – stay. Okay?”
“I’m staying,” he grumbled into her hair.
“No time travelling,” she clarified, “Not yet. And not without me.”
“Fine.”
“And you have to do my homework for a month.”
He groaned. “Fine.”
“Including Russian,” she added, just to make him scowl, pushing her luck. He let go of her and pulled away, rolling his eyes. He didn’t really mean it, clearly, because his mouth quirked up in a sort of relieved way when he looked at her. Probably thinking ‘at least she’s not crying anymore.’
“Any more conditions, Number Seven?” He folded his arms.
She sniffled. “I reserve the right to add any more conditions at any time until my hand is better.”
Five made a noise of indignation. “You do realise that you can still write,” he exclaimed, reaching out and holding up her hand by the wrist. “You’re not left-handed.”
“That’s a good point,” Vanya said, and leaned forward. “But consider this – you stabbed me.”
His face twisted and he dropped her hand, looking away ashamedly. “Okay, fair enough.” He glanced at her. “Tell me, how long do you plan on drawing out these guilt-trips? Just so I know.”
“As long as I deem necessary,” Vanya said sweetly, and he glowered.
Just then, Mom waltzed in, holding a tray with two mugs of hot chocolate. One with marshmallows, one without. “Oh, Five, what a surprise! Aren’t you meant to be in training?”
“I will neither confirm, nor deny that,” Five said testily, but took a mug without complaining. Vanya took his and swapped it with her own, giving him the marshmallow one. She preferred it without.
“Alright,” Grace said easily, taking the tray and making to leave. “Oh, and Vanya; do you have any ideas about what you would like to study during your allocated violin practice times? Sadly it might be a little while until you can play safely.”
“Yes, Mom,” Vanya said cheerfully, earning a raised eyebrow from Five. “I was thinking I might use the time to teach Five how to play. After all, they say the best way to learn something is to teach it.”
Five gawked at her with a look of abject horror as Mom gushed about how good of an idea that was. When the android was gone, having said something about returning to their studies soon, he jabbed a finger in her face. “Me? Violin?”
“I will live vicariously through you,” she declared, and took a big gulp of hot chocolate.
He snarled, and she smiled. They both knew he did not have the patience for learning an instrument. “Vanya, come on! I don’t want to—”
“Hey Five?”
“What.”
“Do you remember that time,” she took a drink of hot chocolate, finishing it, and then gave him her best doe-eyes, “that you stabbed me?”
“Nope, don’t recall,” Five said quickly, standing up from his chair and backing away, eyes narrowed. It was the eyes, definitely. They never failed. “That never happened.”
“Oh, but it did,” Vanya mused, and then stood up too, one hand bandaged and hurting, and the other cradling a now-empty mug and a handkerchief. “I definitely remember it. The pain, the horrible pain, and the blood—”
Five went pale and covered his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Vanya…”
“It was awful. You have my snot all over your blazer, by the way,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. From between his fingers, Five glared at her without any heat.
“That is so gross,” he snapped.
“You’re gross. You also have my blood all over your shoes.”
“What!” His head snapped down to look at his feet and she stole his mug and drank the last of his hot chocolate while he was distracted.
“This evening, we begin your violin tutelage,” she said, handing him both of the empty mugs and not even flinching at the absolutely scathing look he was trying to give her. It never worked on her. “Be ready.”
“I’m going to play so badly that you’ll be begging me to stop. I’ll make your ears bleed. I will butcher your precious violin and that is a promise,” Five said menacingly, pointing a finger at her as she grinned and opened the door to leave, but mostly he just looked relieved that she didn’t hate him.
Didn’t stop him from dropping the mugs straight back down on the table deliberately and brushing past her.
Together, they walked out into the hallway and took a moment to blink at the light and dust in the air, and the faint, distant shouting of the Umbrella Academy in training outside. Privately, she thought Five wouldn’t do too badly playing an instrument. Maybe the piano.
They started down the corridor towards the stairs, and began the long trek up to Five’s room. Vanya felt pleased that he didn’t teleport ahead as he usually would, instead walking beside her, pretending like he wasn’t glancing over at her every few seconds to make sure she wasn’t going to faint or anything.
And unbeknownst to them, although Vanya’s hand hurt a lot and it took months before she could play again without any pain; and maybe her playing was never quite the same, something that made Five guilty every time he thought about it – Five stayed true to his word and refrained from time travelling, staying by Vanya’s side instead.
In four years, Ben would not die on a mission, because Five would be there to find him and blink him out of the burning building before it collapsed.
In five years, every one of the Hargreeves children – including Luther – would leave the Umbrella Academy behind, and in ten, Five would be rifling through Reginald’s study for some documentation about Vanya’s mystery pills and answers as to why she had to take them, when he would stumble across a certain blood-red book.
And in seventeen years on the first day of April, 2019, Number Five – by now an experienced time traveller and professional academic with four PhDs under his belt at thirty years of age – would be sitting with the rest of his siblings in a row of reserved seats at the Icarus theatre watching his sister’s performance as first chair with pride.
The audience would lean forward, captivated as she played, and later would describe her as radiant, almost glowing in her performance. She would wear a bright white suit, and have a small white scar on the back of her hand, and after the show, she and Five would kick off their shoes at her apartment and clink two mugs of hot chocolate together in celebration, one with marshmallows, and one without.