Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s an unusually cloudy day when he shows up the first time— in all honesty that was probably some planned out foreshadowing of what was to come for you. 

You’ve helped run this café since you were fourteen, ever since your mom took on a second job and you, the only child, had to step up and help out. You were kind of scared at first— how were you supposed to run a whole business pretty much on your own? (You could barely do your algebra homework!) But you managed to get into the swing of things eventually and here you are, edging on the cusp of adulthood at eighteen years old. 

You run the shop like a pro now, and it might not be exactly Starbucks (those corporate thieves) but it runs just fine and the locals adore you and your little café. “The best coffee around!” They say and you always try but fail to stamp out the warmth inside you from the glowing praise. 

It’s not the most glorious job, being a full time barista, but you enjoy helping out your mom in any way you can, since it’s just the two of you. You don’t spend a lot of time together because of this arrangement, but you appreciate every moment you get with her. 

You muse on this, not for the first time, your eyes settling on a framed photo of you two on one of the walls—your mother with her hands on your shoulders and little you in a too big apron at the grand opening of the shop years ago. 

Bedsides the old bird that pretty much stayed all day everyday soaking up the free WiFi, the cafe was usually pretty empty this late in the day. People were usually at work, so you half heartedly milled around and worked on your homework. 

And then you see him. There was nothing but empty air two seconds ago when you turned your back, and then he was just there. You yelp in surprise, clutching the front of your apron. 

His lips tilt, his eyes amused and not the least bit remorseful or apologetic, which tells you this is not the first time this boy has scared the living shit out of an innocent bystander. “Hi, there.” He greets, all dimples and neatly combed hair. 

He couldn’t be older than twelve or thirteen and he’s wearing a schoolboy uniform, which leads you to believe he’s probably just left school. (But he has no backpack or school supplies of  any kind). 

Definitely not your usual kind of customer, but you’ve definitely had weirder. (You remember the man in the flower dress who was high as shit and ate half your inventory of cinnamon rolls.) Pushing your thought aside, you don your customer service smile. 

“What can I get for you, sir?” He almost preens at that last word, shoulders squaring and you resist the urge to chuckle. Children love being addressed like an adult, so you do all the time to tease a giggle out of them. 

“One cup of your finest, blackest coffee.” The boy responds. Huh. Black coffee—the one thing no kid could ever enjoy. Briefly, you wonder where the hell this kid’s parents are. Not that he’s in any imminent danger here, but you’re not exactly located in the safest city either. Regardless, you set about pouring a cup. 

“You from around here?” You ask casually, trying your hand at small talk. You do genuinely wonder if he is, though, because you’ve seen what wealthier people wear and that uniform looked like it was tailored perfectly with fine looking material. Prep school maybe? Catholic? Do kids wear this kind of stuff nowadays?

His smirk only grows. “Nope.” Well. That answered absolutely jackshit. Okay, then. 

“That’ll be 2.06,” you inform him, he digs through his pockets and slides over a five. 

“Here you go.” You hand the mug to him, and he’s careful not to let your fingers touch. Germaphobe maybe?

The kid thanks you oh so formally (so polite, how cute!) and takes a good mouthful the way an experienced coffee drinker would. Damn. Your mouth drops open a little and you stall in getting his change. 

He smacks his lips and his green eyes widen to comical proportions. His hand darts out to wrap around your wrist at lightning speed, and you jump, startled, dropping bills and the coins and they roll all over the counter. He leans forward, his gaze sharp and impaling. (There’s something very, very old in his eyes.)

“What brand is this?” His voice is pitched low and serious. You blink, wide eyed. But his stare is demanding and authoritative (Not normal for a kid.) and you stammer out:

“Uh, it’s not store bought. I make it fresh every morning. Grind the beans myself. They’re exported from friends out of country.” The words nearly blur together with how fast they tumble out of your mouth. 

He squints, and for some reason it makes you squirm. This was literally a child, why are you so freaked out? (Maybe it was that scary movie you watched the other night with the possessed little kid. G-ddammit.) Pointedly, you give your wrist a little tug. You just want to give this kid his change and get him out your shop. 

The kid seems to realize he’s still holding onto you and lets go, proceeding to down the rest of the coffee in one go while you hunt for his dropped change. You straighten from where you were crouched on the ground, and when you look up he’s leaning over the counter on both hands, propping his knees on the stool. 

“Got a card?” His pale eyes still have that intense look that freaks you out, so you’re quick in pulling a business card with the café’s details. He plucks it from your fingers, scanning the address with great concentration as if memorizing it. His gaze flicks to you again, and he smiles placidly. 

“Thanks. Could I get a cup to go?” Those little dimples are back and you scramble for a to-go cup. He reaches in his pocket for money, and you shake your head vehemently. 

“No”, you blurt. “That’s okay. On the house.” You grin tightly. He pauses, cocking a brow. (As if you’re the strange one here!) 

“Why thank you. Have a nice day.” He hops off the stool and you close your eyes for a moment to scrub a hand over your face. “You too—“ You open your eyes, and the kid is fucking gone. (What the fuck.) When you close up shop later in the night, you wonder if you made the whole thing up. 

He said he wasn’t from around here, so you hope that means you won’t be seeing him again.

Right?

Chapter Text

Okay, so you were dead wrong about the kid not coming back. 

In fact, much to your great chagrin, he stopped by at least once a day. Every fucking day. You swear to every deity out there he just magically pops in and out, quick and silent as a fox. There one moment and gone the next. Most of the time, he buys a to-go cup and vanishes with a two fingered salute and that cocky little smirk. 

His sudden appearances and equally sudden disappearances scare the shit out of you every time and you just know the kid is well aware of it. He never seems to tire from frightening you, amused by your fumbling attempts to hasten his orders just to get him to leave. It sort of went like this one time:

“Good morning.” A familiar voice sounds from above you as you were grabbing extra napkins to restock. You hadn’t even opened yet. 

Nevertheless, he catches you by surprise (like always) and you let out a little scream, rising only to hit your head on the bottom of the countertop with a hard thunk. 

“Fuck!” You can’t help but hiss under your breath, your free hand rubbing the lump starting to grow and you straighten to face him. 

The kid looks like he’s suppressing a grin, mirth dancing in his bright eyes. Little shit. 

You just barely manage to hold back a sigh. “How did you even get in here?” You grumble. Your mother would be appalled at your manners, but by now you and the kid know each other. There’s a routine. He comes, you glare, he leaves. The routine. 

“Maybe I teleported.” He says sardonically, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes. “Who’s to say?”

You feel your eye twitch, just a little. Customer service smile. Customer service smile. You plaster on a grin and force and very mechanical sounding laugh, the kind you make when your teacher makes a bad joke but you really want that grade. “The usual?” Let’s cut to the chase here, kid. 

He places a hand over his heart, tipping his head to one side with a fake smile. “You just know me so well.” If there’s one thing you learned about this kid, it’s that he’s got a real mouth on him. 

“Since we haven’t even opened yet,” you emphasize this fact by gesturing around the bare tables with the chairs still on top, “you’re gonna have to wait.” 

The smile slides off his face like water, and his dark shapely brows furrow in displeasure. You almost take glee in getting one over on him. Almost. You’re the adult here, after all. 

“Fine.” He’s almost pouting. “Be quick about it.” (You ignore that last part.)

There’s honestly so many questions here that you’ve both had and some you still have and you don’t even know where to start. He’s always here alone which is alarming in and of itself. (Does he have a family? For all that he irritates you, you sure hope he does.) He’s always in the uniform. Even on weekends. (Does his education curriculum require classes on the weekends? Do kids do that now?) He shows up at odd hours of the day (never during rush hour you note), which makes you wonder if he even has classes at all. (And he always pays with five dollar bills. What is up with that?)

For all these questions, there’s nary an answer. They’re always insanely vague or curt or said in some way that makes you feel like you’re missing something. It usually used to go like this:

“You don’t walk here here, do you?”

A flat chuckle. “No.”

“...bus?”

“Nah. Too many people annoy me.” 

“Okay, so your parents drop you off?”

“I’m very sure I ordered a cup of coffee. Not an interrogation.”  

Okay, rude. 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” You raise an eyebrow accusingly when he pops in at around two in the afternoon on a Wednesday. 

“Shouldn’t you?” He snarks back, mockingly mimicking your sassy brow. 

“I’m homeschooled.” You retort confidently. 

“So am I.” 

You scowl, defeated, and he smiles all fake sweet. 

Brat. 

But so far, the most alarming answer you’ve gotten was from this particular discussion. 

You’d been pestering him to eat something (not like you cared about his well-being or anything like that) and you’d said— 

“Look, kid. Just take the cinnamon roll , you never know what’s gonna happen tomorrow. Just enjoy life’s little pleasures. ”You were half joking, half insisting, but you stopped short when he locked eyes with you. 

“I do, actually.” His face was devoid of emotion. Something was happening beyond the blank look he sported, something dark and terrible and crumbling behind his eyes. He hid it well, but you recognized the look. It was the same one you mother got whenever your father was mentioned. 

“You know the future?

“I know everything.” 

You stared at each other in the ensuing silence. The statement was bold and seemed very unlikely, but something stopped you from refuting it. 

Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t have. He gulped the last of his drink and vanished in a blink of light.  

That was the first time you really saw him disappear (you firmly suppress that fact because that would mean admitting you’re insane) and after that, you never asked another question. 

“Tick tock, barista person.” You glare over your shoulder from where you were flipping the open sign. 

He was clutching the seat of his stool, the worn leather cracking under his grip. One hands lets go to waggle thin fingers at you impatiently. His legs swing all childlike. 

“Yeah, I’m coming, I’m coming.” You set about making a pot. “I have a name, you know.” You tack on, petulantly. 

“Oh, are we on a first name basis now?” He quips. “Moving a little fast there, don’t you think?” This kid was just brimming with snark.

“But I thought I knew you so well?” You throw it right back at him, determined not to be defeated in this game of wit by a literal child. 

He blinks, caught off guard, and you turn to grab his order so he doesn’t see your victorious grin. And when you turn around with his cup, you’re surprised to see a hint of delight in the minute quirk of his mouth. For the grouchy little ankle biter act, he seems to be secretly pleased with the game of retorts you two have everyday. 

(Not that you are, though. Definitely not.)

The familiar bell from the opening door catches your attention and you remember that, yes, you have a life outside this weird kid. 

The place starts to fill up with the usual morning rush hour, which is basically businessmen snapping away at their Bluetooths and tired teenagers about to go to class. 

For some odd reason, you glance at where the boy was sitting and surprise surprise, he’s nowhere to be found. In his place, a five dollar bill (Seriously. What is his obsession with five dollar bills?) He never takes change from you (weird thing #2536728 about him) and when you do manage to push it into his hands along with his drink, he just drops it in the tip jar and vanishes before you can thank him. Every time. You tried it once. 

“You know, there is such a thing as pocketing change, kid,” you mused aloud as you wiped down the counter.  

He scowled. “I’m not a kid.” 

You rolled your eyes, but you’ve heard this before. Every kid says that. You still say that. 

“I mean, the tips are very much appreciated.” You almost snicker at the repulsed look on his face. 

“What are you talking about?” He deadpanned. You hid a smile. He’s much like the croissants you make for Tuesday Morning Specials— flaky and brittle on the outside, sweet and soft on the inside. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, kid.”

“I said—“ He cut himself off with an angry huff. “Don’t call me kid.” He’d muttered into his mug, and you’d figured that you pestered him enough about it. You definitely did not mind the hefty tips, and you didn’t want them to stop. 

The day came and went and you were just about to lock up before you left. The café might be a side thing to help with bills but you loved this little place— mainly because it was right across the street from your apartment. 

The moment you’re about to shut the door, you see a dark shadow in the reflection of the glass pane and before you can scream something hard nudges you between your shoulder blades and you stiffen. Shit. 

“Get inside,” the stranger rumbles, shoving you with what you presume to be a gun. 

On the outside you’re blank-faced and tense, but on the inside, you’re cursing yourself for being an absolute moron. Again, you don’t live in the safest city. This isn’t the first time you’ve been robbed, but this is the first time you’ve been met with a deadly weapon and someone not afraid to use it. 

“Okay, man. Just take it easy.” You try to placate once inside. The shake in your voice betrays your fear. 

“Shut the fuck up, and open the register.”  You do as you’re told, and you consider going for the pepper spray in your pocket. The different outcomes spin wildly in your head. Would you be fast enough? Should you hide behind the counter? Try to fight him? 

“Hurry the fuck up!” He shouts angrily, waving the gun and stepping forward menacingly. “Put it in a bag.”

You flinch, and stuff your hard day’s work into a brown paper to-go bag. Maybe you’ll get out this alive, you think. Maybe it’ll be okay. But then, because you’re you, a complete disaster of a human being, you mistakenly look up to hand the bag from behind the counter and freeze. 

He swears under his breath and yanks his hood further down, but you’ve seen enough to condemn him if it came down to it. He raises the gun point blank to your face. 

The only thing you think about is your mom. 

They say, with things like these, that time slows down. You see it in movies, TV shows, read it in books. They’re all filthy g-ddamn liars. Because what happens next is definitely not in slow motion. It happens in the blink of an eye.

One moment he’s about to pull the trigger, and the next there’s a knife sliding across his throat, red spraying far enough to spatter hot on your face. The thug’s arm jolts, and the bullet goes wide, shooting the ridiculous “Live, Love, Coffee” sign your mom refused to let you take down. Thank G-d for small mercies.  

You want to scream, but there’s no breath in your lungs. The man falls dead to the floor. You stare at him, completely dumbfounded as blood begins to pool under his body. 

You just mopped those floors. 

Your knees turn to jelly, and you sink to the floor, gasping for breath. Sirens sound in the distance. 

The cops come, and you have zero idea who could’ve possibly called them. Definitely not you. You were huddled like a pussy still behind the counter. 

They wrap a shock blanket around your shoulders and lead you out, steering you clear of the body and you’re grateful for it. They call your mom for you. At some point you wonder if they think you killed him. After the police question you, they clear you because, really. You don’t look like you could kill anyone. They’re still skeptical about your recount of what happened, but the evidence on your fucking face supports your story. 

You think maybe. Just maybe before the police arrived, that you saw a brief flash of blue light. Maybe. 

You dismiss it as siren lights.

Chapter Text

After The Incident, your mom naturally freaks out and tries to motherhen you into your apartment for a few days off— but she’s already working two jobs and there is no way in hell you’ll make her work any more than she has to. You fight about this for a while, until you compromise on closing up shop a little early for a few days. 

You haven’t seen the kid all day, and you haven’t thought about him either—the whole experience had you very shaken. Your hands shook when you poured coffee, and you flinched at any loud noise.  

(At night, you dream of your father and knives and gunfire.)

You refuse to turn your back on anyone, which makes your job a little more difficult but you’re too paranoid to care. At around three hours before usual closing time, you’re wrapping things up and making sure the doors are locked tight. (You just wanna whip around to run to the safety of your apartment, but that shop’s your family’s pride and joy, and you’re responsible for it.)

“Hey,” you hear from behind, and you lose your shit. 

You whirl fast enough to give yourself whiplash, brandishing pepper spray and snarling. 

“Shit!” The figure steps back hastily, hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Easy, there.”

You blink hard, a few times. The fading sunlight illuminates the figure easy enough, it’s—

“Kid...?” You whisper, and you recognize those schoolboy shorts and floppy brown hair and pale eyes. But for some reason, your hand won’t lower.

“Just me,” He concedes. His dark brows are knitted with...some kind of emotion. Not one you recognize. “You wanna stop pointing that thing at me?” His brows raise. 

Oh. Right. Slowly, your arm bends and you shove your shaking hands into your pockets. You feel a little embarrassed for freaking out because of a child. You clear your throat. “What are you doing here? We’re closed.”

“I see that.” His eyes dart all over your face. Probably taking in how awful you look. You haven’t been sleeping (the nightmares have kept you up) and you’ve kept yourself busy by burying yourself in work, giving you some lovely dark circles and an overall paler complexion. 

“Little early to be closing up shop.” He notes casually. 

“Yeah, well.” The sun’s rays are fading, and you can’t help but nervously glance around. Unbeknownst to you, the boy zeroes in on the movement. “It’s just for a while.” 

His eyes narrow, speculating. “Why?”

That gaze makes you feel pinned, and you swallow. 

“Because I say so.” Apparently, this answer is unsatisfactory, because he scowls. It sounds like something your mom would say, and to be truthful it’d probably annoy you, too. 

“Just go home, kid, okay?” You mutter, and you want to walk past him, but you don’t want him behind you. 

“What’s wrong with you?” He comes out with, bluntly, and you’re taken aback at the brash question. 

“Look, kid—“

“I’ve told you not to call me that—“

“—I just want to do some homework and go to bed, okay?” 

The boy is unperturbed. He mirrors you, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Okay. Then go.” His face is blank. 

Fuck. This is a test. He knows, somehow, that you won’t turn your back on him, you won’t. You grind your teeth, your exhaustion catching up to you real quick. The lack of sleep isn’t helping either. 

“Just move.” You force out. 

“I’m fine right here. Go around.” He retorts. 

Damnit. Like a damn fool, you circle him, keeping an eye out all the while on the rapidly darkening streets. You flash a tight, plastic grin and offer a jaunty little, “Bye!” And scuttle to the double doors of your apartment complex. 

Behind you, he gives you a flat look, completely unimpressed, and trails after. Your hands shake when you unlock the door, and before you can slam it shut behind you, the scrawny boy is shooting a hand out to stop it in its tracks. That is apparently the last straw. 

“Why can’t you just go away!” You yell, your thinned patience snapping, and the boy’s demeanor darkens in an instant.

“Not anytime soon,” he replies coolly, and there is something behind his eyes again, manic and wild and familiar and you flinch, stumbling back as he advances on you. (It definitely doesn’t feel like you’re looking at a kid. Not at all.)

The hairs on the back of your neck are lifting, goosebumps raise on your arms. It’s that same feeling you get when you’re being watched, the feeling you get when you’re face to face with a wild animal (or a gun). You have no idea what could be triggering this.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice calls, and you almost cry out in relief. “There a problem, here?” Your doorman, Ernie, looks up from his newspaper, looking between the two of you. 

Is there? It’s a child, for crying out loud. Did the attempted robbery really mess you up that much? To drive you to this point of paranoia? (You know it wasn’t. It wasn’t even the gun in your face.) Before you can say anything, your least favorite little weirdo smiles wide, dimple and everything. 

“Not at all. Just a tutoring session.” His eyes crinkle, and he rocks back and forth on his heels with a boyish grin. “Really been helping me out with pre-algebra.” The little shit pours on the charm, enough to relax Ernie’s wrinkled brow, and long icy fingers wrap tight around your wrist to pull you to the elevator. You are helplessly at a loss for words. 

“Tutoring, huh? Well, don’t work yourself too hard! You do too much as it is, ya know,” the old man’s voice chides fondly, before the elevator doors shut. 

You rip away from the little psycho, and surprisingly, he lets you. 

“What the hell is your problem?” You hiss, rubbing the spot where he nearly cut off your circulation. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

He presses the button for the fifth floor (how on earth does he know what floor you live on?) and casually folds his arms. “It’s not in my best interest.” He says simply, and you gawk. 

“Not in your—?” This has gone on long enough. “I will call the fucking cops,” you hiss, and when the doors open you storm out, but hesitate stomping straight to your door— you don’t want him knowing where you live. 

“Oh? And tell them what?” He looks smug.

But he’s right. What the hell would you even say? Yeah, this small child is seriously creeping me out. Please arrest him, thank you. 

You run your hands through your hair roughly, almost painfully, in sheer frustration and take deep breaths. Okay. Okay.  “Whatever,” you breathe out in resignation, and honestly you are just so g-ddamn tired. Screw your homework, you just want a goodnight’s sleep. 

The moment you touch your doorknob, however—

Your whole world explodes. 

Chapter Text

The moment you touch your doorknob, your world turns to fire. 

You feel yourself get knocked clean off your feet by the explosion and you think you might have blacked out for a few seconds because the next thing you know is that you’re flat on your back. 

There’s this horrible ringing in your left ear, and when you touch it, your fingers come back wet with blood. The roaring of flames is muffled, and you struggle to see through your blurred vision. You shift onto your side, groaning, and you note blearily that the apartment five doors down is up in flames— the tips lick the ceiling with a deadly threat to set the whole building ablaze. 

And everyone in it. You included, your brain urges, if you don’t get the fuck up right now. Well, you and—

The kid!

“Shit!” You hiss, and scramble to get your footing. It takes a few seconds because your head hurts like your brain was placed into a blender on “mince” and the world is still spinning around you. Your left wrist burns vaguely with the effort to lift yourself up off the floor, but you pay it no mind because the pain is already fading—adrenaline is setting in. 

“Kid! Kid!” (Ugh, why couldn’t the short stack give you a name?) You cough violently, the building smoke stinging the back of your throat and your insides. Peering through the smoke, you spot a small figure slumped on the ground.

No. 

You half crawl, half scuttle over to him and your heart fucking drops to your stomach. He looks so. . . small. (Not a word you would dare use to describe him.) Blood paints the side of his head and you—

(—pull the shower curtain back, and you know what you’ll find, you what’s there because the outcome never changes—)

You crouch over him, shielding him from the rising flames. Shaking hands hover frantically over his shoulders, unsure of what to do. What if he had a spinal injury? But the fire trumps that right? Wait, is he breathing? Your head swam with questions, but in the end, you decide it’s best to move him, like, now. 

You slide your arms under him, carefully, and lift up, trembling with the effort— he’s heavier than he looks. You half turn and use the side of your body to push open the door to the stairwell, and sweet mother of God did you have to live on the fifth floor?

Going down the stairs with a body is definitely a challenge. You shake with every step, trying to keep the boy’s head still on your shoulder—you don’t want him moving around too much. You can’t really see where your feet are landing, you just hold on tight and pray that you don’t miss a step. You make it to the lobby and hesitate. 

It feels wrong, somehow, to waltz out the front door. You gut tells you to go out the side door, and because your day (your week, really) honestly could not get any crazier, you listen. You stumble further into the alley, and to your great relief hear sirens wailing in the far distance. Sirens means an ambulance. But you don’t stop, wanting to get as far from the burning building as possible. 

You reach a distance you deem safe, and gently set down your cargo, panting with the exertion. Gently, you prop the boy against a wall, crouching next to him, cradling his head between your hands to keep it steady. 

Something warm and red seeps between your fingers on one hand and you pointedly ignore it. His eyelids flutter, dark lashes brushing against his cheeks. He looks so much younger, like this. 

(—and it’s his face, fine lines from age relaxed in his sleep, the gun sits in his hand—)

“Hey,” you say softly, peering at him. You try to not let your voice shake. “Wake up.”

(“Please, please wake up—“)

“Wake up.”

He groans, face pinching and you let out a sigh of relief. The adrenaline is wearing off now, your wrist is on fire and your ear is throbbing. Something in your side twists in pain—you hadn’t even noticed it before. You pull your hands off and land roughly on your ass, hands inching over your ribs. 

Ow. 

The pain brings tears to your eyes, makes your hands tremble. You hear the kid stir some more, mumbling your name. The sirens are louder now. You hear the fire roaring in the place you’ve called home for years now. 

Slowly, you slump onto your side, pressing your sweaty temple to the cool ground below. Suddenly you’re exhausted to your bones, and your whole being is shaky. 

“Hey...”

The last thing you hear is the sound of your name before you close your eyes and float into the darkness.

Chapter Text

You float in and out of consciousness. At one point, you think you hear someone shouting. People arguing.

“...easy! Just don’t...”

“...call me that one more time...”

“...help...get...the car...”

“Can...hear...?”

“If you can hear me...”

“I’m sorry about this.”

——————————————————

You come to, for the second time, with the sensation of something lightly jostling your body. You would pitch forward if it wasn’t for something holding you in place, across your lap and chest. You hear the familiar sound of an engine running, and it hits you that you’re in a car.

“Hey,” you begin, but it comes out more like “hmmgh”. With great effort, you loll your head to the left to blearily squint at the driver.

The driver who is your youngest, weirdest customer. The customer who is a child and is driving. He spares a glance at you, face unreadable. Dark red stains the side of his face, but he seems completely unbothered.

“Try not to move,” He orders flatly, eyes focusing ahead.

“You can’t be...driving,” you slur, sitting up. You might feel like the world’s most abused soccer ball, but even in this hazy state you recognize that as the legal adult here you should probably do something about this. Something responsible and mature-like.

You try again, “Your—your head—“ The boy cuts you off brusquely. “—is worse than it looks. Hardly a cause for concern,” he dismisses. He looks at you again, with dark guilty eyes. “You took the brunt of the explosion, I’m afraid.”

The explosion. Your apartment. The fire. The alleyway. You make a strangled sound and jerk upright as the memories rushed back. Your home almost fucking exploded!

The boy snarls in frustration and hits the hazard lights to pull onto the side of the road. Road? Where? You don’t even know where you are, you realize with increasing alarm. Looking out the window, you see trees and grass for miles. You’re far outside the city, obviously.

“What the fuck,” you struggle to spit out, writhing against the seatbelt. Agony flares in your side and you yelp, slumping back into your seat.

“I told you not to move.” The kid says, annoyed.

“Where are we!” You demand, fingers scrabbling at the seatbelt button. Well, with your good hand, because the other is making its injury known by burning red hot with pain.

“On the edge of Pickering according to the last sign I saw,” he says calmly like the little shit he is. And holy shit, Pickering? You’ve completely left Toronto! Your hand darts for the car door but he’s faster, locking the doors with a simple click. You whirl on him, furious and scared and so fucking confused.

“What the hell is going on!” You scream, hand curling into a fist. “My-my apartment-it almost, I was—you—“ You sputter helplessly, not even knowing where to begin with the shit show that has been the past twelve hours.

“Take your time,” he says with exaggerated slowness, as if you’re the child and he is the adult. You grit your teeth. Anger simmers under your skin and makes your hands shake, but the kid takes it in stride and faces you head on. As pissed off and lost as you are, your eyes trail over the blood smearing his temple, and your pillar of fury leaves you in one breath.

Your eyes burn, and to much to the boy’s horror, they begin to well up.

“Uh—“ He stammers, clearly caught off guard. He probably expected screaming and fighting and expletives. But everything is coming back to you right now, his frail body in your arms in a flaming hallway ( and the bathroom tile stained with blood) and your hands covered in his blood.

“I thought you were dead,” you choke out. His pale eyes are wide and almost manic looking. You breath comes faster and you clutch at your chest, scrunching your shirt in your fist.

“What,” He says, and you would almost say he sounds a little panicked. “What is happening? Are you—?”

“Please—please let me out,” you gasp desperately, and fuck, it’s been a long while since you had one of these. ( Liar. You had one a few nights ago, after the man put the gun to your head and his blood sprayed your face .)

Alarmed, the boy unlocks the doors and you stagger out into the middle of the field and fall to your knees. Your chest feels so, so tight and you head swims. You crawl on all fours and retch behind a rock. Your heart is rapid fire quick in your chest, and heat prickles on the back of your neck.

Panic attack. Fuck. Fuck .

“Are you injured internally? Concussion?” You hear the kid’s voice from behind and—aw, is that concern you hear? That’s so cute. You’d tease him for it if you weren’t freaking the fuck out.

Your good hand clutches your shoulder tight, trying to ground you but it’s too late for that.

You’re seven years old again.

Something wakes you. You’re not sure what it is. A loud sound, maybe. You swing your feet to dangle them uncertainly over the edge of your bed then drop. The floor is cold and curls your toes. Your stuffed animal is tucked against your side for protection as you wander into the darkness of the hall.

The bathroom light is on. It has to be your Dad, because Mom is working her usual night shift. Your little hand taps the door in the rhythm of shave and a hair cut— it’s your super special code your father taught you. The door creaks open a crack.   The sliver of light hits your eye, and you sway apprehensively.

No answer. Something is. Wrong. Something is not okay. You feel like maybe you shouldn’t go in. You hold your toy up at eye level, and ask them very seriously what they think. They don’t say anything, so that seems like an affirmative to you.

You push the door open the rest of the way and— no one is there. You call out.

There’s something in the bathtub.

You hear someone call your name.

Wait. That. That can’t be right. No one called your name because you were the only living person in the room.

“Easy,” you hear. “Listen to the sound of my voice.”

It’s firm, yet quiet.

“Can you hear me?”

Yes.

“Just...deep breaths, okay?”

Yeah, that’s...yeah okay. Good idea. You take deep shuddering breaths until it feels like your heart isn’t about to leap out of your chest.

The bathroom tiles on the floor melt away into soft, green grass. The small, claustrophobic room fades to an open grey sky. Oh. Right.

You’re vaguely aware of a tentative hand on your shoulder, the barest hint of pressure. It’s...nice. Grounding.

“Back on earth?” The kid tries, and you can’t quite decipher the emotion in his voice.

You close your eyes, cheeks flooding with the heat of extreme embarrassment. You just had a full meltdown in front of a kid for fuck’s sake. Your head bobs in a tight nod.

“You’re clearly not brain damaged. Use your words.” And wow, today is really your day because the hits just don’t stop coming, do they?

You laugh wetly, just a tad hysterical, because honestly. What the fuck.

“I’m fine,” you force out, swiping roughly at your eyes. You wait for the inevitable snarky remark, but it never comes. Instead, long, thin fingers touch your jaw, directing your face to look up. His hand is freezing, a soothing balm on your heated cheek.

The kid leans down and peers into your eyes with a frown.

“Hmm.”

“I said I’m fine,” your voice hardens, and despite the humiliation you’re feeling, you gently bat his hand away. You stand, just a little wobbly.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

And you know what? That’s another thing. He’s so fucking casual about the whole thing, and that’s whats really pissing you off. That fact that you’re the adult here, crying and sniffling and the fucking twelve year old is the one keeping his head.

“You mean the explosion? How could I forget almost becoming a human crisp?” Ah, the good old fallback to humor. Hasn’t failed you yet.

The kid rolls his eyes so hard you fear they might actually fall out of his head. It would serve him right.

“After that,” he snaps, apparently running out patience.

You pause. Swallow.

“I carried you out.” His gaze slides away away to somewhere over your shoulder, and he nods to himself. And if your voice sounds a little too hoarse, neither of you mention it.

“And then?” He prompts.

You try to think back. You remember pain. Lots of it. It’s still very much present, by the way, every breath you take makes your whole body throb like one big bruise.

“I don’t remember. I think I blacked out?”

And then you...woke up in the car. Clearly there’s a gap that only the kid could fill in. You plant your feet and cross your arms, trying to look assertive.

The kid stifles a snort. You dutifully ignore that.

“Your turn, kid. What happened while I was out? Where the fuck did you get a car? How did you get the car? And why ,” you cannot help but stress this last part, “are we in the middle of nowhere ?”

“I asked very nicely.” He says flatly, tucking his hands in his pockets.

You feel the familiar twitch in your eye. It might be a hysterical tic at this point.

“Why am I in a fucking field miles away from the city ?” You press.

“Would you prefer I left you unconscious in the middle of an alley?” He retorts, and the sheer fucking nerve of this kid, as if he’s the one doing you a favor.

“You—,” you splutter indignantly, “I would have preferred a hospital !”

“Then you’d be dead. Now get back in the car, we’re burning daylight.” He brushes past you, back to the car.

Wait. What .

“What— no . HEY.” Dead ?

“We don’t have time for this!” He snarls, whirling on you. “Get in the damn car.”

“No!” You yell back, because he can’t say something like that and not expect you to react.

His lip curls in irritation, but you couldn’t give less of a shit.

“Enough with the cryptic bullshit, kid! I almost got exploded, you’ve essentially kidnapped me, and I’m not fucking moving until you tell me what’s going on !”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re very aware of the insane fact that you are standing in a idyllic field, screaming at a child , nay, a delinquent child, whose name you don’t even know after almost getting blown up . This is your life now.

The kid closes his eyes, taking a calming breath it would seem because apparently you’re the one that’s being unreasonable. 

“If you come with me,” he says, slowly, like he’s forcing himself not to yell, “I will explain everything.”

You say nothing.

His eyes harden, reflecting the sky’s icy grey color.

“Fine. Stay here, then.” He grins meanly. “Have fun getting back to civilization.”

And with that, he’s climbing back into the car, a nice black honda civic, you register faintly.

Wait. Fuck. If he really leaves, you have zero way of contacting anyone. You don’t even have to check, the familiar weight of your iphone five isn’t in your back pocket. It’s hard to imagine a world where your missing phone isn’t your biggest problem. Lucky for you, you don’t have to imagine it, you’re living it.

The sound of the engine turning over snaps you into action. It’s not a hard choice, after all.

“Wait! I’m coming! I’m coming.”

Chapter Text

You almost regret getting in the car.

The smugness on the little shit’s face, having gotten his way, is quite the sting to your pride. Insult to injury, or in your case, various injures. Plenty to choose from.

“I feel like I should be the one driving.” You have to mention it.

“No.” He deadpans.

“How old are you? Twelve? How do you know how to drive?” You ask, incredulous.

“I’m f—thirteen.” He corrects, irritated, as if that was any major difference. You almost laugh.

“And I know how to do everything.” It sounds rote, like he’s had to say it before.

“That sounds pretty grandiose.”

“Out of the two of us, which of us actually knows how to drive?” He snipes. You blink at that.

Okay, how did he know you don’t know how to drive? Listen, you lived in the city, okay, with perfectly good public transportation. Driving was an utter nightmare, there was no point in learning, you’d reasoned to yourself. As if you could even afford a car. Well it was certainly coming back to bite you in the ass now.

“How did you— ugh, never mind.” You perk up a little.

“Hey, wait, where are we going?”

A long, put upon sigh. “I preferred it when you were unconscious.” He says placidly.

Wow, fucking rude.

“Yeah, same here, pal.” You couldn’t help but mutter under your breath, slumping in your seat.

He’d looked so peaceful when he was out cold. He’d actually looked his age, if that made any sense. Grumpy little frown smoothed out and everything.

He shoots you a sharp look at the remark but you don’t acknowledge it.

Ugh. Now it’s all tense and quiet. You reach for the radio, maybe lighten the mood with some tunes, only to have the boy smack your hand away.

“Ow!” You yelp, and shake out your fingers. “What was that for?”

“No music. It’s distracting.”

God. What kind of kid doesn’t like music?

“Who are you?” You stare at him.

He scowls, shaking his head.

“No, seriously.” You insist. “We’ve been through a near death experience together, I think at the very least I deserve to know your name.”

His jaw shifts, like he’s rolling his tongue in his mouth, deciding.

“Five,” he finally spits out.

“Five what?” You say dumbly. “Syllables? Must be a long name.”

His knuckles go white from gripping the wheel.

“ Five ,” he hisses, “is my name .”

It’s silent for three beats.

You’d accuse him of joking, but the kid isn’t exactly the humorous type.

“Your mom...named you that?”

A slow exhale.

“My father.” He says, in a way that you feel means that if you ask another question he might knock you out himself.

“Oh,” you say, weakly. That’s...incredibly fucked up. What kind of parent names their kid a number? The pieces fall into place, a little. The manners, the uniform, the homeschooling. A little kid knowing how to do things that little kids shouldn’t know how to do. The grouchy personality.

Black coffee.

You think about your dad. Your secret little knocks, the way his crazy yo-yo tricks were his pride and joy. He’d make you chocolate chip pancakes on Saturday mornings.

You can’t help but feel sorry for the kid, but you’d rather crash this car than express it to him. You have a feeling it wouldn’t be received too well, anyway.

You take a deep breath.

“Well. It’s nice to officially meet you, Five.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t even look at you.

But the tension eases a little, anyway.

_________________________________

You end up driving until nightfall to Whitby,  with a quick stop at a gas station, and pull over at some tiny little motel that apparently also doubles as an ice cream place.

“Remind me how we’re gonna pay for a room?” You lean down to mutter at him, on your way to the front desk.

“It’s on you, actually.” He tosses you your wallet.

Wait—he tosses you your wallet?

“Wh-when—?”

“In the elevator,” he hums nonchalantly. “You should keep better track of your things. Lots of pick-pocketers these days.” He must have used it to pay at the gas station earlier.

You snarl. “You—“

“Hello there!” The receptionist chirps. The heel of a shiny black Oxford dress shoe slams down on your foot, cutting you off mid-tirade.

Fucking hell that hurt.

You grit your teeth into a forced grin, though it’s more like a baring of teeth. You will not hit a child. You will not hit a child.

“Hi.” You grind out. The woman’s eyes go wide, her smile faltering at the edges. “A room for the night, please. Two beds.”

“You two look a little young to be out so late at night.” She eyes the blood stains on you apprehensively, hands hovering over her keyboard.

Five says nothing, purposely leaving you to flounder for a believable lie. Fucker. Fine then.

“Oh, you know,” you wave a hand in the air.

“Just thought I’d take my,” you sling an arm around Five’s shoulders in a loving embrace, relishing in the way he stiffens, “wonderful baby brother out on a road trip! Sorta like a sibling bonding thing, you know?”

The woman glances at Five.

“Right, little bro?” You grin maliciously, suppressing a laugh at the way he gives a full body twitch under your arm. Oh, you’re really gonna get it now.

You watch his face smooth over pleasantly, his lips curve into a docile smile.

“Of course,” he says smoothly, winding a thin arm around your waist. “Sibling bonding.” In such innocuous words, you can actually physically hear the impending pain of death. Yikes.

The woman melts, because of course she does, who wouldn’t at the sight of those dimples, and starts typing away.

Five waits until she looks away to grab a piece of flesh just above your elbow and twist hard, still smiling sweetly all the while.

“Fff—“ The receptionist looks up, and you smile again, muffling your yelp of pain. Little shit.

“That’ll be sixty for the night, hun.”

While you show ID and pay, and get your key, Five takes the opportunity to slink away from you, presumably to your room.

“He’s so precious!” The woman coos to you.

“Isn’t he just,” you mutter darkly, and trail after him, rubbing at your abused arm.

The room is nothing to crow about, two small twin beds with the most hideous floral sheets you’ve ever seen and a matching armchair. It’s like a grandma decorated the whole place.

There’s a small TV, the door to the bathroom is closed. It smells vaguely of mothballs.

You slap the key on the dresser and gently collapse face first onto one of the beds, groaning.

“Touch me like that again and I take a finger next time,” Five says icily.

“Fuck you,” you say, muffled, into a frilly pillow.

You hear an odd whooshing sound and when you glance up he’s gone. You bury your face again and hear the same sound a moment later, and soft footsteps on the carpet along with the rustling of plastic bags. The kid must have gone to grab his stuff from the car. How the fuck he managed that without opening the door is a problem for tomorrow you.

“Here.” Something thumps softly on the bed next your head.

You glance at it blearily. It’s a sandwich wrapped in plastic.

“Gas station dinner?” You hazard a guess.

“You’re welcome.”

The audacity of this child never ceases to amaze you.

“You should be thanking me,” you grumble, but sit up against the headboard to unwrap and scarf down the only thing you’ve had to eat all day.

You watch Five inspect the bathroom, then the windows, double-checking the locks. On the door, too, he peeks out the peephole on his tip toes. Hmm. He’s just as paranoid as you are. You try not to think too hard about the fact that you might have anything in common with this kid.

The remaining bed creaks as he sits down opposite you, closest to the door. His shoes barely scrape the carpet, and he hunches forward to rest his elbows on his knees, interlacing his fingers. He just...watches you.

You pull up your knees defensively, frowning back at him. It’s deeply unsettling how little he actually blinks.

“You’re not gonna eat anything?” You probe.

He tilts his head to one side. It’s almost cute. Almost.

“I...still have half.” You give it a little wave. The corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling, but his lips don’t move.

He shakes his head. “Eat.” He starts pulling stuff out from the bags.

Hesitantly, you return to your food. You can always try to convince him to eat something tomorrow.

Five pulls out a pen and a pad of paper, muttering to himself and scribbling furiously.

The two of you sit, in almost companionable silence. You want to ask him what the hell he could possibly be writing, but his brows are knitted in deep focus and you don’t wanna interrupt him.

You look down at your hands once you’re finished, grimacing at the blood and dirt caked in your palms. You’re in desperate need of a shower. You’d love some new clothes, too, but these are the only ones you have, bloodstained and all.

The water pressure is terrible, because of course it is, but the heat is nothing short of heavenly. And if you break down and cry a little in the shower, well, that’s your business.

You put your dirty clothes back on, because you don’t really have a choice, but you’re still grossed out.

Five is still writing when you stagger back to your bed.

“What’s that, your diary?” You can’t help but jab, but your heart isn’t in it.

He ignores you. Brat.

Were you this much of an asshole when you were a kid? Lord knows if you were your mom definitely would have—

Oh shit. Your mom.

You shoot up, and supress a pained whimper.

“What is it?”

“Shit, fuck—“

“Full sentences, you can do it.”

You’re panicking too much to register the insult.

“Dude, my mom—I need to call her!”

Without looking up, he holds out a disposable phone.

“How did....nope, no. Not even gonna go there.” You sigh.

You dial her number and brace for the onslaught.

It’s not pretty.

After the general sobbing and apologies and platitudes, she asks you where you are.

“I’m at...” You glance up at Five, who watches you with an unreadable expression. He slowly shakes his head once.

“I’m safe,” you finish weakly.

Hang up, he mouths firmly.

“I...uh... have to go. I love you. I’ll call you later.” You hang up, reluctantly.

“Okay, so, I have a missing persons report out on me.”

“Uh huh.” He returns to his nonsensical scribbling.

“My apartment burned down, by the way,” you feel the need to add.

“That tends to happen with fire.” He sounds bored.

The twitch in your eye returns full force. That’s it. That’s it.

“You know what? Fuck this.” You storm to the door, reaching to unlock it and get the hell away from this shithole and go home.

And that’s when it happens again.

In a blink of blue light, the kid is right in front of you, arms crossed, face unimpressed.

A very interesting sound comes out of your mouth, then, something like a gasp and strangled yelp as you stumble back.

What the fuck.

He follows you, unhurriedly, as you scramble away from him, tripping over your own two feet. Your arms pinwheel for balance until the kid calmly reaches out two fingers to push your shoulder and you teeter over. You wait for the impact of the floor but instead land in the armchair with a heavy thump. You swear a small dust cloud poofs up from the fabric.

“How—you just—“ It’s different, seeing...it... happen right in front of your face, up close and personal and not out of the corner of your eye like last time. It’s undeniable, yet incomprehensible.

“I did promise you some answers.” Five sighs, perches on the edge of your bed.

“So,” he smiles tight-lipped and sardonic, and clasps his hands together.

“Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Five tells you everything.

It’s silent for a long, long time.

You open and close your mouth several times, about to speak but then thinking better of it.

Five is surprisingly patient, waiting calmly for you to take it all in.

You review what you believe to be the most important points in your head.

“Whoa, whoa, wait. If you were born in the eighties then why do you look twelve?”

“Thirteen. And I’ll get to that eventually. Be patient.”

“So your mom is a robot?”

“Yes,” he’d hissed. “But that’s not relevant.”

“So the Mayans were only a few years off about the end of the world?”

“So it would seem.”

“Commission of what, exactly?”

“Time and space. Were you not listening?”

“So you’re actually fifty eight? But you look like a kid.”

“My consciousness is fifty eight. You wouldn’t get it if I try to explain.”

“No, I do.” You’d protested.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“So, like, instead of just pushing yourself through time, you pushed time through yourself.”

He’d squinted at you, marginally impressed.

“That’s...actually accurate.”

You weren’t about to tell him that you got that from a movie. Small victories and all.

“But the world’s not ending anymore...right?”

“For now.”

That had not been a comforting answer.

So. Super powered babies. Boatload of daddy issues. The Apocalypse. Secret organizations. And a fifty eight year old man that looks thirteen. That can teleport. You can’t help but get this niggling feeling that he was leaving something very important out, but honestly this is enough to take in as it is. Any more and your head might explode.

“So?” Five hedges, apparently having waited long enough, trying to catch your distant gaze and gauge your reaction.

“Um. Okay.” There’s a thing called compartmentalizing, and you’re using it in full effect right now.

“Okay?” He mimics. “Any questions?”

“Uh, yeah. Just the one.” You rub your eyes with the heels of your hands.

“Shoot.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?” He frowns, contemplative.

“That’s just it, isn’t it.” Five cocks his head, his eyes piercing. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

A spark of frustration. “But why can’t I go home?”

“ Because, ” he stresses, like the answer was glaringly obvious, “that little explosion? I think it was meant for you. You almost dying twice in the span of a few weeks? Just after meeting me? Can’t be a coincidence. The universe is hardly ever so lazy.”

You could feel the blood drain from your face. How is this your life? A week ago you were just wiping down counters and trying not to flunk your classes.

“But I’m just a barista,” you couldn’t but whine. “I’m not special! I don’t have any,” you waggle your fingers, “powers or—or abilities.“

“Maybe not. But this stinks of the Commission’s meddling, even if you do seem like a nobody.”

Ouch. Harsh.

Five must catch the look of hurt on your face, because he sighs and softens his tone fractionally.

“Look.” He leans forward. “I think we can help each other out if we just stick together. We’ll both get the answers we want.”

“I don’t understand,” you shake your head, processing.

The notch of Five’s jaw tics like he’s grinding his teeth, annoyed.

“What don’t you understand? I thought I made it pretty clear that we need to find out why this happening, so that—“

“No,” you snap, his mounting frustration building on top of your own. “I don’t understand why...”

“Why bring me along?”

He blinks at you uncomprehendingly.

“I mean clearly,” you laugh without humor, “you don’t need me. Why not just let them kill me?” Something too quick to decipher flashes in Five’s eyes at that. “Whatever happens to me has nothing to do with you. You’ll still get what you want.”

His brows furrow. “I could.” He agrees unapologetically, and you try to not to flinch at that, stung.

“But then, where else am I supposed to find a decent cup of coffee?”

You snap your head up at that, open-mouthed and indignant.

But in the lamplight, while his face is neutral, his eyes look soft, almost mirthful.

Ah. You understand now, what he’s trying to imply but can’t seem to express. Clearly, even if he won’t admit it, he’s grown used to your presence. Fond of you, if you could be so bold. And you can’t say you don’t feel the same, even if he drives you insane.

You can’t imagine going back to your café and not seeing him there, nagging you, trading jabs with you in the early mornings. He’s a little shit, and some days you can’t stand him. But secretly, you look forward to seeing him.

You can’t help but smile, just a little.

He glances away, clearly uncomfortable, clearing his throat and slapping his palms on his knees.

“Call it paying back a debt.” The softness vanishes, replaced with a indifferent tone and a cool smirk.

“After all, you did save my life. I’m just returning the favor and I don’t like owing anyone.”

You force your smile away, playing along with his clear inability to be vulnerable. You let it slide without commenting on it.

“Right. Of course. I understand.” You nod very seriously. “Purely transactional.”

“Hmm.” He glances at the digital clock on the nightstand. “You might wanna get some sleep. We leave early tomorrow.” He slides off your bed to return to his own, and grabs his notepad.

You dutifully crawl into bed, but can’t help but ask, curious. “You’re not gonna sleep?”

“Don’t see how that‘s any of your business.” He casually dismisses, doesn’t even look up.

You roll your eyes and regret asking. Back to the regularly scheduled assholery. “Of course. What was I thinking?” You say sarcastically and flip to turn your back on him.

You fall asleep to the sound of pen on paper.

_________________________________

Because life decidedly hates you, even your sleep takes a turn for the worse.

You dream that you’re trapped in your apartment building, every door you open leads to roaring flames and you can’t find your way out. You choke on smoke and rising desperation.

Then you’re in your café, and there’s a gun in your face, and the man behind it is your father. He pulls the trigger and—

—then it shifts to the familiar bathroom scene. You’re not a kid like usual, but your proper age. In the tub lies Five, bloody and you scream and scream and don’t stop screaming.

A hand grabs your shoulder and roughly shakes you awake.

You yell, wildly swinging in a blind panic, and your wrist is seized in a tight grip.

“ Watch it .”

You follow the pale hand to Five’s face. He looks angry, but you’re not sure why. Maybe because you almost punched him in the face.

“If I let go, are you going to keep flailing?” He asks flatly, and his tone is indecipherable.

You stare for a second, unable to respond, and blink hard to get rid of the bloody image from your head that superimposes over his face.

A strong urge rises in you to touch him, grab him, make sure he’s real and whole and alive—though the way he’s reacted to your touch so far tells you that it might not be the best idea to break that boundary.

Five lets you go and doesn’t ask if you want to talk about it.

“I’m going to check out for us.” He slips out of your personal space, and starts collecting his things.

“You should clean yourself up.” He says dispassionately, barely sparing you a glance. “You look like a mess.”

With those kind parting words, he leaves you to your own devices. God, he’s such an asshole, you think in disbelief.

Nonetheless, you take his advice and freshen up in the bathroom. The sight of the tub makes you sick, remnants of your nightmares that stick in your head, so you pass on taking a shower.

When you come downstairs, he’s nursing a cup of coffee by the window at a small table for two, tucked into a cozy little alcove.

There’s a draped table nearby at the end of the lobby with breakfast foods, and although you don’t quite feel hungry, you figure you should take advantage of the free buffet.

You nab some toast and jam, and some small pancakes doused in syrup. Pausing, you glance back at Five and fix a second plate. You don’t know what he likes, so you grab a bit of everything.

You join him, and casually slide him breakfast. He eyes it with open disgust.

“We don’t have time for this. We should be heading out right now.” He urges.

“When was the last time you ate?” You retort.

“How is that important?” Five says, disgruntled.

“If you keel over from hunger, you’re useless to both of us,” you shoot back, you’re not in the mood for his bullshit today, not after another night of bad dreams.

“Now shut up and eat your breakfast, old man.”

He looks just about ready to murder you, but you maintain your glare. Then he scoffs and relents, snatching some toast and ripping a bite out of it like it personally offended him.

Satisfied, you dig into your own plate.

“So,” you say once you’re full, “what now?”

Five slips a pamphlet over to you. “We need to ditch the car. There’s probably an APB out on it.” Ah, yes, you’re reminded that he did in fact commit grand theft auto alongside kidnapping, how silly of you to forget.

You scan the pamphlet, which is flipped to the town’s transportation routes. “We’re taking a bus? To where?” You fold it up and tuck it in your back pocket.

“Cobourg,” he grunts. “Trip’s a couple hours, we’ll have to take more than one bus. Easier to ditch anyone that might follow us anyway.” His eyes slide to the window, staring out of it.

Ugh. Could be worse. You were used to public transportation after all, but you remember Five hated buses. Should be loads of fun.

“Why—“ You start.

The bell rings. You look up and freeze.

A tall thin man in a black suit leans on the front desk. The back of his jacket rides up and just barely reveals a gun tucked in his waistband.  You have a feeling he’s not here for the breakfast buffet.

You nudge Five’s foot under the table, frantic.

His eyes snap to your face. Thankfully, he’s smart enough not to ask out loud what’s wrong and instead leans forward to see for himself. His eyes widen and he leans back again.

The man rings the bell, impatient and looks around. His gaze lands on you. You lock eyes.

Oh, shit.

Chapter Text

You whip your head forward but it’s too late, you hear him approaching you. Five looks at you steadily, puts one finger to his lips and reaches for the jam knife with his other hand. What the fuck he’s gonna do with that little thing is beyond you, it’s barely bigger than your longest finger.

Something cold and hard presses to your temple. You close your eyes.

“Let’s take this outside, hmm? Before the nice lady at the desk gets back.” A voice croons, a heavy hand lands on your shoulder.

“Please don’t hurt her,” you beg, even as you’re pulled out of your seat.

He pushes you to the front door, and as the cool morning breeze hits your face you contemplate your life. If you die here, like this, that’s two people your mom loved struck down by a gun. You try desperately to remember if you told her you loved her on the phone.

Then, the weight vanishes off your back and you stumble further outside. Wait, what?

“Run!” You hear Five order behind you. Yep, good plan.

You take off like a shot down the road, and good God you are really out of shape. Maybe you really should have taken that Zumba class with your mom.

You round a small building that might be a bank and lean back against the wall, chest heaving for breath. Remembering the pamphlet in your pocket, you scramble to unfold it. Ok, fuck, what town did Five say again? Cobourg! Cobourg.

There’s a bus that leaves in about ten minutes, the stop is about a twenty minute walk at the very end of this road. After that, there isn’t another bus until eight. Fuck, you have to catch that bus, but there’s no way you two are gonna make it in time. You could take the car, but you remember Five has the keys.

Wait, a bolt of panic shoots through you, then chilling dread at the fact that you just very well left a kid (for your sanity, you’re calling him that) with an armed hitman—superpowered or not.

You run back into the road, staring wide eyed at the small motel. You hear muffled shots and see flashes of blue light through the windows.

You’re about to run in there when that familiar blue light flashes about fifty feet above the motel. Holy shit. It’s Five and the suited man, and you can only watch in horror as they descend, tangled up with each other. Five solidly kicks the man in the torso, pushing himself away in an elegant midair backflip and vanishes. The man is not so lucky. He lands on the roof with a sickening crack and tumbles down the sliding and disappears behind the building.

Oh, fuck. You look away, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth, feeling your breakfast try to come back up.

The bell dings again, and out walks Five, unruffled, fixing his tie. There’s fresh blood on the collar of his shirt and a bruise blooming at his hairline but other than that he seems perfectly intact.

“Five,” you breathe in relief. He squints at you, irritated.

“Thought I told you to run.” He says. “Not a very good listener, are you?”

“I—I did, but, that guy, shit, man, you killed him.” Your voice cracks and Five stares flatly at you, unaffected, and looks over his shoulder to peer at where the man shattered the roof tiles on impact.

“Technically it was the fall that killed him.” He shrugs.

“But—“

“Freak out later,” he snaps. “We need to get the hell outta dodge, before someone else shows up.” He snatches the pamphlet from you.

“Shit,” he swears, obviously coming to the same conclusion you did. He whispers something under his breath, gauging the distance of the bus stop and the limited amount of time you have left before you miss your ride. You stare, nonplussed.

“About a mile,” Five declares.

“What?”

“I‘m going to have to teleport us,” he clarifies, “in order to make it on time.”

“Why can’t we just take the car?” You press.

“Not an option.” Translation: he’s lost the keys, somehow. You’re not gonna bother asking.

You consider the only option you have and shake your head. “Teleport a mile? Can you do that with two people?” You can’t help but doubt it a little. He’d explained to you that his powers came with a cost, too many jumps in a short span of time would leave him down for the count. And from what you’d seen him just do, he’s used up a few already. Had he even slept at all last night? He’s had, like, one fucking piece of toast in two days. “That seems like a lot, even for you.”

His thins his lips into a tight line, clearly unhappy but resolute.

“I’m gonna have to. Let’s just hope I don’t miss.” He mutters, cracking his neck and shaking out his lanky arms.

“Miss?” You squeak. “What happens if you miss?” What the fuck does that mean?

“Might wanna hold your breath,” Five advises, and reaches for you.

“Wait—!”

The experience of teleportation is difficult to describe. It’s a combination of free-fall in pitch black darkness and your hand or foot falling asleep, like pins and needles. Or static, except it’s all over your body, under your skin, inside you—like your very atoms can’t stop vibrating.

Fortunately, it only lasts for about a second or two.

The two of you re-materialize behind a parked bus, landing on the pavement. The drop is only about a foot, which would be fine, except Five lands on top of you.

You wheeze as the air in your lungs makes a swift exit. You forgot how heavy he is.

“Five,” you rasp. “Five!”

He doesn’t answer, which is not a great sign.

You gently roll him off, disentangling your limbs. Alarmed, you bend and press your head to his chest. After a tense moment or two, you heart the faint thump of a heartbeat and the steady intake of his breath. You almost cry with the relief of knowing he’s okay. He’s definitely overexerted himself, though.

The bus driver stares at you both, and you can’t blame him. Five is propped up against your side, one thin arm wrapped around your neck and your arm around his waist, holding him up. His head lolls around lifelessly.

“Is he okay?” The man questions dubiously.

“Uh, yeah. He’s just...” You scramble for an excuse.

“Taking a nap. You know,” you chuckle nervously, “kids. Woke him up a little too early for his liking.” Thank God he’s unconscious, because if he heard you say that he’d probably teleport you off a building next.

“Right.” He doesn’t look any less suspicious, but lets you on. You figure it’s because you two look absolutely pitiful.

You gently set him down on the inside seat in the very back of the bus, so that he’s sandwiched between you and the window, and you yourself collapse next to him.

There’s not many people on the bus. A tired young woman and her baby. An elderly woman wrapped in a pretty shawl. A group of guys in a soccer uniforms. You figure none of them are hitmen material, and relax.

Something lands softly on your shoulder. You’re confused for a second, thinking Five is awake, but it’s merely gravity at work, as he’s rested his head on you. You pray he doesn’t wake up like this, though, knowing him.

The old lady catches sight of you both and she smiles kindly, clearly enamored at the sight of what she believes to be two siblings snuggled up to each other. Damn, this kid’s really got everyone wrapped around his little finger, doesn’t he?

“That is so cute,” she comments, and you smile back, wondering if she’d feel the same knowing that not ten minutes ago he’d dropped a man from five stories up.

“Oh, yeah,” you agree tiredly, “he’s a real treat. Just the sweetest.” You can’t help but just smirk just a little, getting away with saying that out loud in his presence.

The lady giggles, and you figure it’s safe just to...close your eyes. Just for a second.

Just a few seconds.

——————————————————-

You didn’t mean to fall asleep but somehow, you sleep a dreamless sleep. You come to slowly, peacefully, for the first time in a long time. (Maybe it’s the lull of the bus engine. Or, maybe, it might be the little, warm weight pressed against your side. You don’t think about it.) The sun hasn’t risen too much, so you couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two.

Someone snores loudly in your ear, and you almost jump out of your seat when the morning’s events catch up to you. Oh. Right.

Five killed a man. Technically. And was completely unfazed. Not only is he a thief, but a kidnapper and a murderer. How do you pack all that in such a tiny body? You wonder.

Okay, well, to be fair, the guy was definitely planning to kill you, and the probably the annoying but albeit innocent desk lady, you reason to yourself.  It’s not really murder if it’s self-defense, right?

In fact, he saved your life. He could have let the guy kill you, but he didn’t, the man hadn’t even seen him tucked into the corner like that.

Five seems so callous, emotionless even. But you know his type. Grouchy with a heart of gold type.

You remember, talking quietly in the motel, when he told you he spent forty-five years alone after the end of the world. He didn’t go into detail, but he didn’t really have to. The distant look in his eyes told you everything and you were kind enough to not ask him to elaborate. You refused to even acknowledge the whole mannequin thing.

That shit definitely did not sound easy. You glance down at him, considering. For all that he insults you, and is generally an asshole, he’s been there when it’s counted. Everything he’s done so far is to protect you, and himself.

(You’re an only child. But for a small, fleeting moment, you wonder what it would be like to not be one.)

He’ll probably be angry at you for it later, but you decide to let him rest for just a little longer.

Chapter Text

You immediately take back everything even remotely nice you’ve ever thought about Five.

Fuck that little old man twerp; you’re grateful as hell you’re an only child.

As soon as he starts to stir, Five instantly stiffens from where he’s resting against your shoulder. He jerks away from you like you’re on fire, pressing against the widow.

“What the hell?” He grumbles, ruffled like an angry cat. You want to laugh at the comparison in your head because that’s actually spot on, but you’re too busy being offended.

“I thought I told you not to touch me,” Five mutters lowly, ducking his head to smooth down crinkles in his blazer, his sweater, running anger-curled fingers through his messy hair. He doesn’t actually seem all that overly bothered by the physical contact, just that it’s you in particular.

“Are you fucking serious?” You whisper harshly, barely remembering not to raise your voice. “You passed out on me. Literally . What did you want me to do, let you sleep on the floor?”

“That would have been preferable,” he shoots back, more on instinct to fight than anything else. Your hands twitch with the urge to strangle something.

“I should have left you lying on the pavement,” you retort, “I’m getting really tired of lugging your unconscious body around. You’re welcome , by the way.”

“If anything, you should be thanking me . I saved your life,” Five sneers. “Three times now if I recall correctly.”

“Thanking you!” You laugh humorlessly. “You kidnapped me one of those times, if I recall correctly, ” you mock. “And that only happened because of your crazy fucking employers trying to murder me. This, literally , is entirely your fault .”

Five scowls deeply, twisting to glower out the window. “Should have let that robber turn you to swiss cheese,” he mutters darkly under his breath.

And, wow, the irony of that statement sits sour in your stomach. When your apartment went up in flames, you saved his life. And he repaid you—not by taking you to a hospital like a fucking normal person—no, by dragging you several towns over against your will to the middle of nowhere. None of this would be happening if you’d let the little shit burn to a crisp , you think bitterly.

The rest of the ride has you both sit through tense silence. Five is scrawling in his notebook, almost tearing the pages in his irritation, and you’re glaring a hole into the seat in front of you, bouncing your leg with pent up energy. With all the back and forth you two have had before, it’s never been this mean.

You think it might be the fact that you’ve been forced in each other’s company for much longer than either of you are used to. You spend a lot of time on your own—sometimes you chat with online classmates over zoom about homework and much you screwed up whatever exam you just took, but it’s not like your social life is thriving. You can’t imagine Five’s is either—obviously, from what you’ve heard, he loves his family very much, however, he takes their presence best in smaller doses.

Maybe it’s the forty five years of isolation that has prolonged human contact rubbing his nerves the wrong way. Either way, you’re pissed off—it’s not like you’re overjoyed about this arrangement either.

The bus makes a ten minute stop for riders to change buses at the station, and you immediately dart up out of your seat.

“Where are you going?” You hear Five call sharply, but you ignore him. You plop yourself on an empty bench nearby and bury your face in your hands, miserable.

Why is all of this happening to you? You’re no saint, but you’ve never been a terrible person. The worst thing you’ve ever done that you can think of is that one time your mom took you to church when your dad was still alive, and you accidentally stole a pen and cried because you thought you were going to hell. That was the last time you went.

But these...Commission people. They don’t sound like the type to give up. They’re never gonna stop hunting you. It was only a sheer stroke of luck that the explosion was at the end of the hall and not right in front of your face. It was only by chance that your mom hadn’t been home when your place burned. You miss her so much it hurts, but you also know you can’t go back to her. Danger is on your heels, and you don’t want this mess anywhere near her. She’s been through enough as it is.

Horrified, you find your eyes are burning, and there’s a familiar lump in your throat. You close your eyes tight, bury your face deeper in your hands because now is not the time to break down. Once was humiliating enough. You think you can feel Five’s gaze on you, but you really don’t care.

He’s been through shit you can’t even begin to imagine, and that’s...he’s used to it, you suppose. Life or death situations. End of the world type stuff. But you’re not. You’re not like him or his family, you’re not special or different. You’re only human. You’ve almost died several times within the span of a few weeks. It’s a lot to deal with. You don’t even want to begin to think about all the homework you’re missing out on.

As much as you hate this little arrangement, you’re stuck with it. The only person on your side that can help you is Five. You’ll just have to work with what you’ve been given. That’s something your dad used to tell you at least.

Your thoughts are interrupted when Five slides into the empty spot next to you with a reluctant sigh. Speak of the little dimple-cheeked devil. You hastily wipe your face and look away, staring at the cloudless blue sky.

He fidgets, and it’s a childlike gesture that’s so opposite his personality. It’s jarring to think there’s a fifty-eight year old man inside this little boy’s body, someone who’s three times your age but physically can barely meet your eyes.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You hear him say quietly. You smile, close-lipped, brittle. This must be his way of apologizing for snapping.

“I miss my mom.” You say plaintively, shamelessly, surprised at your own honesty and your smile dies.

It’s quiet for a few beats.

“You’re more mature than average for your age.” He says offhandedly. Wow. That’s probably the nicest thing he’s said to you yet.

“Sometimes,” he continues quietly, “I forget how young you really are. You’re barely an adult.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you don’t say anything.

Five leans forward in his seat, rubbing his hands together. It seems like a habit of his, playing with his hands.

“This must be...” He seems to struggle with finding the right word. “...a lot.” He settles on, haltingly. It’s obvious he’s not very good at this whole comfort thing.

You let out a dry chuckle. “I’ve seen worse.” And you have. Bloody bathtubs in the middle of the night.

He hums noncommittally and doesn’t pry. “Regardless. I’m…sorry.” Surprise blooms over your face, but he doesn’t notice, he’s watching people pass instead. “I know this can’t be easy.”

For someone so incredibly prideful, you’re shocked at the genuineness of his apology. Maybe he’s not completely emotionally unavailable, after all. Forty five years is a lot time for introspection, you imagine.

“Thanks,” you say warily, and suddenly you don’t feel so pissed anymore.

And then the two of you sit like that for a bit, in the quiet little bubble you share, reflecting on the darker corners of your minds.

“Maybe you should to try to rest during the next one.” Five offers awkwardly, breaking the silence. Aw, look at him trying to be caring.

“Me? What about you?” You cock a brow at him. “Did you even go to bed last night?”

“I just slept,” he says matter of factly.

You bark out a surprised laugh. “Passing out from exhaustion does not count as actual sleep.”

“Besides,” you settle comfortably into your bickering routine, pushing your emotions to the side, “I hear naps are good for kids.”

The boy glowers at you. “I will drop you under the wheels of this bus.”

But there’s no real heat to the threat, so you figure he knows you’re joking. He’s probably just content now that he doesn’t have to deal with Human Emotions. This kid really needs a therapist. He’d probably eat them alive, if you’re being honest here, and the thought makes you internally  chuckle.

“Our ride is taking off soon. You ready to get back to it?” Once again, his consideration for how you’re feeling pleasantly surprises you. You’re still generally upset, but that’s probably unavoidable given the outrageous situation you’ve found yourself in.

You close your eyes briefly, and take a deep breath. No time like the present, you suppose. You rise, stretching your arms and shaking your legs, preparing for the long journey.

“Let’s do this.”

An hour into the next route, an idea pops into your head.

“We should play a game.”

“ Christ ,” Five mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Come on! To pass the time. Just one round of....” You flounder for a second. “I Spy!”

“What the hell is that?” Five questions flatly.

“It’s like, uh, a description game? I say the color of something and you have to guess what it is.”

“What kind of simple-minded moron would ever willingly play that?”

“Is it…that lady’s socks?” You guess for the thousandth time.

“No. Those are obviously aquamarine.” Five sniffs.

“Ugh, I give up. There is nothing teal on this bus!”

“...”

“Five.”

“...”

“You’re supposed to pick something that’s actually on the bus !”

“Well, it kept you occupied, didn’t it?”

Chapter Text

“Hey, wait. Why are we on this bus? You never got to say.” You can’t help but probe, quietly.

Maybe he feels bad for reprimanding you earlier, because to your surprise, he just sighs and begrudgingly sets his pen down for a moment.

“Someone I know is staying in Couburg. He might be able to answer some of our questions.”

“A friend of yours?” That possibility seems highly unlikely.

A wry smile twitches at his lips. “Not exactly. We used to work together. We actually tried to kill each other at one point before things got sorted out.”

Oh! You remember him telling you about this, briefly, the man he shared a margarita with at the end of the world. The bird watcher.

“Right,” you nod solemnly. “As one does with coworkers.”

Five exhales sharply through his nose, mildly amused—probably the closest thing you’ll ever hear to a genuine laugh. Then his already faint smile slowly melts back into his typical frown. Ah, well. At least you got something.

“Hopefully, he’ll let us past the door. We aren’t exactly buddy-buddy.” He looks tired.

Very, very gently, you nudge Five’s shoulder with your own. “I’m sure he will,” you affirm. And since when are you the one doing the reassurances around here?

Apparently Five also recognizes the irony of this and shakes his head to himself, but at least he sits a little more upright.

As weird and complicated as this little dynamic is, at least you have each other’s backs.

___________________________________

“I’m starving.” You mutter, for what feels like the fifth time in an hour. By now Five’s patience is starting to wear thin, you can tell by the way the notch of his jaw jumps.

“You just had breakfast.”

“That was hours ago!”

“It was a big breakfast.”

“Yeah, well, I hardly got to enjoy it.” You snap.

Unbeknownst to the both of you, a little boy watches you curiously, shoving a balled fist up to his mouth delightedly. His gaze darts back and forth like he’s watching a very intense tennis match.

“We’ll be stopping soon.”

“You said that five minutes ago.”

“And the answer hasn’t changed—I swear if you don’t quiet down—“ His voice lifts, and then cuts off as the awkward silence from the rest of the bus becomes all too apparent.

Five meets their gazes coolly, a smirk curling his lips. “Kids,” he shrugs, faux-helpless, at the father across the aisle who smiles in hesitant and confused acquiescence. Your face flames hot, and you shrink down into your seat, embarrassed at the attention you’d gathered.

You shut up about food for a bit, and dare not mention the fact that you really, really need to use the restroom.

___________________________________

The last bus ride is thankfully just as uneventful, and Five makes a stop at a payphone booth while you sit on the curb. You absent-mindedly pick at the fraying ends of your bloodstained, singed jeans.

You’re pulled out your thoughts when Five slips out from behind you and he doesn’t look to back to make sure you’re following. You scramble to catch up, shoving your hands into your pockets with uncertainty.

“So, uh, what was that about?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he responds curtly. “He didn’t pick up. Hopefully he won’t blow us away when we show up at his door unannounced.”

“I’m starting to question the company you keep, dude.”

“Oh, yeah? What does that say about you, then?” A vindictive smile tugs at the edge of his mouth. You frown, but the old man's got a point.

“Touché,” you mutter. “Don’t tell me we’re gonna walk the rest of the way.”

“Could take a cab,” he says offhandedly.

“I can feel my wallet crying already,” you sigh, but dig around for it anyway.

You step inside some small Mom and Pop shop to ask around for any local taxi services, while Five waits by the entrance, arms crossed and one foot propped on the wall.

It’s only a ten minute wait, with a younger, timid man that greets you kindly fromt he driver's seat. Five doesn’t return it, instead listing off some address as he commandeers the front passenger seat, leaving you to crawl into the back. More space for you!

While the man is punching that into his phone, you happen to look behind you out of sheer boredom, and perk up. There’s a black SUV idling a few yards back. Something about it tugs at your gut.

Five catches your eyes, and follows your gaze. He, too, stiffens, squinting.

“Drive,” you mutter apprehensively, watching the vehicle’s lights turn on.

“Yeah, let me just—“ the man fumbles for his belt.

“Drive!” You and Five both snarl at the hapless driver, who floors it out of sheer terror. The cab takes off with a sharp screech of tires, swerving into the road and narrowly missing a parked car.

You dare glance out the back window again, and pale as the one black SUV revs into place behind you, and multiplies into three, with two more appearing behind the original on either side, effectively taking up all three lanes.

“Five,” you yelp, alarmed. He turns over the shoulder to see what you’re looking at and swears.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” He growls at the cabbie, who whimpers and presses down on the gas.

The poor guy is really trying his best, but even you can tell that this old thing won’t be fast enough to outrun them. Five must realize the same thing, because his brows lower and his jaw sets in that stubborn way you recognize.

“Five—wait!” Before you even finish speaking he’s gone in a burst of light. The driver shouts in alarm.

“What the fuck!” He squeaks, glancing around wildly.

“Just keep driving,” you snap, and scan all three vehicles, hoping to catch a glimpse of your companion.

There’s a flash of blue in the left van, and it suddenly weaves wildly, nearly taking out the middle car. You hear a muffled burst of gunfire and your heart leaps into your throat.

The side door slides open, and a man tumbles out lifelessly, rolling only to be caught under the tires. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth. There’s more gunfire, and another flash, and the SUV swerves before losing control and falling into a helpless tailspin before the momentum flips it over. It rolls at least four times, before stopping on it’s roof, a crumpled mess of metal and glass.

The car on the right advances on you, the door sliding open to reveal a gunman hefting a semi-automatic. Your eyes widen.

“Get down!” You yank the driver’s collar to pull him away from the man’s line of sight, throwing yourself across the seats, and not a moment too soon as bullets rain over your hands and shatter all the windows.

The cabbie is screaming, trying to drive while being unable to see the road, and you’re screaming while trying to cover your head with your free hand—really, it’s a shitshow. The driver’s hand skitters over the dash and hits the radio, music blaring.

Old pop rock booms from the old speakers.

—you ready for this? Hey

Are you ready for this?

Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?

There’s a sudden rush of wind as the back door at your feet is opened. The SUV slams its side against the taxi, and the gunman reaches inside, grabs your ankle, and yanks.

Out of the doorway the bullets rip!

To the sound of the beat, yeah

You cry out, scrabbling at the fuzzy seats for any kind of a hold, before you catch seatbelt of the far left seat. Which is good, because you’re not yet snatched away by bad guy number two, but is bad because that means you’re currently outside of the car, your upper half struggling to stay inside the cab, your lower half in the agent’s grip, and your middle is in open air, only feet away from the rushing road beneath you.

“Get the fuck off me!” You yell, kicking out with your free foot, but the man’s grip is powerful and it’s a losing battle.

“Five!” You call desperately before your grip slips and you’re pulled away from the taxi, sprawling onto the floor of the SUV in a tangle of limbs. You sit up, only to have a gun shoved into your face, seriously, *again*?

“Do we really have to do this again?” You can’t help but snark, your great sense of timing kicking in. You can vaguely hear the music from the cab that surprisingly keeps up—he must really want that fare.

How do you think I’m gonna get along?

Without you when you’re gone?

“Excuse me. You have something that doesn’t belong to you.” Both of you start. Five is sitting in the passenger seat, with a handgun aimed steadily at the driver’s temple.

Alarm creeps up your spine. If Five shoots this guy, there’s a very real chance this thing will crash before any of you can get control of it, and you’ll all die.

“You’re really going to kill us all?” The man holding you hostage, presses, aghast, clearly reaching the same conclusion as you.

“Let mine go, and I’ll let yours go.” Five says, simply, completely and utterly emotionless.

Are you happy? Are you satisfied? How long can you stand the heat?

Which is good, because you’re freaking the fuck out.

“Five,” you whisper, panicked, and are promptly ignored.

“You’re bluffing,” the man sneers.

Five pulls back the hammer.

“He’s not,” you say weakly.

In a moment of absolute brilliance, complete stupidity, and utter randomness, the middle SUV slams into the back of the one you’re in, rear-ending you all. Maybe as a last ditch effort, but Five takes the chance to pounce.

Out of the doorway the bullets rip—

Several things happen at once. The driver in front makes some sort of sharp movement, probably to disarm the weapon on him, which Five neutralizes by shooting him in the head. The car, now without a driver, veers out of control, which then causes the bullet meant for your own head to go wide, whizzing just past your ear, as the gunman loses his footing to fall backwards against the door opposite of you.

—to the sound of the beat, look out!

Five lunges, tearing through space to appear between you two, and he fists a hand in your collar, at the scruff of your neck. With the other, he waves jauntily with a shark-like grin, before teleporting you both into the back seat of the taxi cab.

After your nausea passes, you yank the door shut and look out the window just in time to watch as the SUV you were just in not moments ago crashes headfirst into the back of a parked garbage truck. Which isn’t so bad, since the gunman seems to rise to his knees inside. Until the second SUV slams into the back with a devastating crunch.

And another one gone and another one gone

Another one bites the dust

Hey! I’m gonna get you, too

Another one bites the dust

You snap your gaze away, horrified. Five sits across from you, resting against the door, mirroring your position. Your legs are tangled up together, all scraped knees and bruised shins, but neither of you seem to care, coming down from your respective adrenaline highs.

“Thanks,” you say hoarsely.

Five closes his eyes, his bangs sticking to his forehead and a new splash of blood on his jaw. “Don’t mention it,” he drawls, sounding just as tired as you feel.

All three of you sit in silence, listening to the wind whistling past the broken windows and the thrumming music as you speed away from the wreckage.