Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

— by Robert Frost, Stopping at the Woods on a Snowy Evening.

Klaus wakes up gasping.

He thinks that maybe he’s had a nightmare, though he doesn’t remember anything. He doesn’t notice then that it’s really the fight next door that ends up waking him up from the hazy world of drugs.

There’s a dull, throbbing ache building up steadily on the back of his head. His eyes feel heavy and his mouth like that one time Diego dared him to eat a whole package of medical cotton. He shifts just a little and that’s when he notices the stinging pain on his cheek.

Still feeling as if he’s underwater, he reaches out gingerly to press down on his face, because it  hurts and immediately hisses at the sharp sensation. His eyes fly open and sluggishly, he tries to sit up.

After a few moments of shuffling around, he manages to sit upright. He can hear the soft pitter-patter of the rain outside. His room isn’t too dark, so he guesses it’s maybe it’s just starting to get dark. He can’t even remember what date it is.

Klaus reaches out blindly with his hand towards his bedside table. It takes him a moment to find what he’s looking for. As soon as he does, he turns on the lamp and brings the little hand mirror he’d taken from Allison a few years ago, opening it up to inspect his face.

“Aw shit,” he says, after spotting the angry bruise blooming on his left cheek.  

“Joy,” he mutters.

That’s going to stay there awhile, alright. Klaus slumps against the bed, tossing the mirror to the other end of the room. It falls with a loud crack. Is he going to get seven more years of shitty luck?

He spots a pair of pants lying on a heap on the floor. A little cheerful, he goes to snag them, noticing that they look suspiciously like something of Diego’s that he’d probably filched once and never returned, and holds them close.

His head still hurts like a hell, but he remembers now, barely, what had happened.

They had gone on a mission. He’d been assigned lookout, as always. Stupid plan, really. He always tended to get caught. And all behold! One of the criminals they were after had spotted him and grabbed him from behind.

It’s all blurry after. Ben had released Them and Diego had pinned her down with his knives. Klaus thinks he remembers Allison cupping her hands around her mouth, whispering in someone’s ear, her smile sickly sweet.

Dangerous, he thinks dazedly. Allison had looked mad.    

After arriving back to the mansion, their father had greeted them with a dark look in his eye.

“In line,” he’d said sharply.

Once they were all in order, Dad had scolded him,—unbelievable, truly, scold him? His absolute favorite son?— he’d started by telling him he’d failed, then he berated his sloppy work: “You’ve been infantile, Number Four. Foolish boy, your stupid and ridiculous behavior—"

Meh, Klaus had thought with feigned disinterest. His heart thudding dangerously loud in his chest.  He’d rocked back and forth on his heels, turning his gaze a little to the side, careful to avert the piercing gaze of his father’s cold eyes.

At his sides, his siblings’ faces morphed into more and more uncomfortable expressions as Dad’s speech progressed. He’d even seen Vanya grimacing from where she stood behind their father, clutching her clipboard close to her.

They had all looked uneasy and a little irritated. Klaus bared his teeth into a stupid little smile until the lecture had ended.  

He’d gone to seek out his dealer right after.

“Gosh,” Klaus says, remembering the way Dad’s mustache had quivered with fury. He’d looked like a thinner, posher Santa Claus with anger issues. He shifts on his bed, tugging the blankets upwards. It’s very cold. Someone must’ve left the window open. “What a nag.”

His vision’s a little blurry and his head hurts badly, but there’s nothing a good fix won’t do. He holds the pants close to his face and he’s looking through the pockets, still, on his bed, he feels it.

His skin crawls with dread. Klaus lowers the pants and through his spotty vision, he notices a woman, glowing faintly blue, standing on the corner of his room. She’s muttering something he can’t quite make out.

His fingers close against the smooth fabric. Klaus swears, looking down quickly,  trying not to catch her eye. Still, there’s something nagging him. He’s seen her before.  

Attempting to be as careful as possible, he shifts his eyes upwards and observes her.

She’s already decaying, Klaus notices, bile rising in his throat.

The woman gazes through the window with empty eyes. Her face is thinning out and her eyes have grown dark, gradually losing their light; giving her a gaunt look. She’s got her neck bent in an odd direction and her side has a large cut from which leaks blood. There’s a white thing on her neck which makes him think of good old coke, so maybe OD?

She keeps muttering, moving her hands oddly. As if she were mimicking grabbing something then breaking it. He’s trying to remember where he’s seen her before when she turns around and locks eyes with him.  

He looks away quickly, trying to pretend he hasn’t seen her, but it's too late. Her eyes go wide. She opens her mouth. Her teeth are rotting, blood drips from her throat.

“You can see me?”

Her eyes start glinting with a crazed, almost hungry stare. She’s a hazy figure, but he can feel her coldness like a cocoon enveloping him. His room is freezing, the window is closed and the woman starts taking wide steps towards him.

“Shit,” he mutters before he jumps out of the bed.

He’s got to get away. Muttering a series of nos, he throws himself against his closet and starts searching through his drawers desperately. There’s nothing. He’s run out. How could he be such an idiot?

The woman reaches his side, extending her arm. It passes through him, ghosts cannot touch him after all. But it still strikes a cold fear in him. Klaus stifles a scream and yanking out his drawer, he throws it across the room, through her. It’s enough to distract her for a while.

He spots something silver and mind whirling, grabs it.

Klaus dives for his bed. It’s no use trying to go through the door, it’s locked. He doesn’t even have to look to make sure. It’s a sick tradition their father’s instilled to keep them in line. When one of them messes up on a mission, he makes Pogo lock their bedroom doors so they can think over their mistakes.

The woman’s face flashes through his mind insistently. He knows her, Klaus thinks as he curls up in his bed, hands folded over his heart. His sheets wrapped tightly around him as if that were to keep her away. Klaus presses his head against the pillow, trying to smother her voice.

Why do they know his name? How do they always seem to know? The screeches of Klaus are just as frightening as when he was just Number Four. Still, one thing that at least he can admit is better, is that, unlike when he was just Number Four, Klaus can’t be translated into a million languages.

Number Four, Four, that’s all they’d repeat.

“Cuatro, Cuatro,” whispered the dark-eyed grandmother who’d died across the street. “Let me knit you a sweater, Cuatro. Ven Cuatro, te quiero contar cómo morí. You have to tell them.”

She had a pair of knitting needles sticking out of her throat. Klaus had been seven when she died. The first few days she’d been only a little frantic, but then she started to thin out and get that crazed look in her eyes. It began happening more as he grew, so he started to ignore them.

What a bad idea.

He unfolds his hands to look at the paperclip he’d found and not wanting to waste any more time, he begins to untangle it.

Standing beside his bed, the woman keeps on droning, talking desperately. And Klaus doesn't know why, but for the first time in years, he listens.

The woman’s voice is raspy as she speaks: “She killed me, that little girl. She whispered and I was falling down and—”

Klaus pauses at her words and has to press his fingers to his mouth, holding back a curse. He can see her: Allison, eyes mad, cupping her hands around her mouth, whispering. The woman, eyes glazed white, walking jerkily towards to top of the building and then—

He tries to concentrate on the clip, pressing himself tightly against the bed. Klaus has got to ignore her if he wants to make it out. The window’s no use, he would die trying to go to the streets on his thin pajamas while it’s raining. He’s almost done when he hears it.

There’s muffled voice. “—ber One cannot believe—" 

Klaus recognizes the tilt of it, the slow drawl, the contempt dripping from its words: It’s Dad. Can’t sleep at night without destroying someone's self-esteem first, it seems. “I’ve never known such a letdown, as your abysmal performance on the written—“

He thinks he can hear another voice, higher and fainter. It’s Luther. “Dad, I—“

But his father keeps on speaking, his tone becoming louder to block out Luther’s apologies. It grows a little fainter, accompanied by the sound of footsteps.

He can hear a door opening, which probably means they’ve taken the argument to Luther’s room, thank god. Klaus had been so focused on the conversation that he almost forgot the ghost in his room.

He turns his attention back to his paperclip. It’s almost done. He grins weakly and gives himself an imaginary pat on the back.

“—childish games!”

There’s a loud thud.

Klaus stills.

He can hear Luther’s soft, “Dad!” and for a small frightening moment, he thinks his father had finally crossed the line: He’d hit his precious Number One. But Luther’s silent and Klaus knows that if something had happened, he’d surely take the betrayal harder and freak the hell out. So, no worries then.

Also, Dad’s an ass yeah, but there’s a small part of him would like to believe their father would never go that far. 

Reginald Hargreeves sighs. It’s a deep sigh, the one they all used to hear often when they were younger. It used to fill Klaus with guilt, as his father had intended. After a while, he ceased to use it, because Klaus wasn’t worried about disappointing his father anymore.

He’d driven Five away and his stupid missions would one day, surely get them all killed. Why should he be ashamed of being the family disappointment? It sounded like survival.

There’s a sound like feet shuffling. He can picture Luther, jaw clenched, eyes red like when he’s trying not to cry.

“Dismissed, Number One.”

He hears the telltale of his father's footsteps clicking away down the hallway. After he can’t hear him anymore, Klaus still waits a few moments, and when he deems it safe, tosses the sheets off him getting out of the bed hurriedly.

He swallows when he passes the woman, whose face is turned away from him and has resumed staring through the window. With shaking hands, he pushes the clip inside and wiggles it. It takes him a full minute of trembling and sweating to finally do it. There’s a click and then he’s pushing the door open and rushing to Luther's room. 

Behind him pops up a flash of blue. For a moment it’s like his heart leaps off his chest, and absurdly he thinks, Five? But then he remembers the ghosts’ grim shapes half-hidden under a curtain of blue, their face ragged and bloody. He feels a cold trail of wind curling around him.  

He starts pounding on the door.

“Luther open up.”

No one answers, but Klaus can distinctly hear the sound of someone inside, walking around or pacing. Luther always paces when things go sideways. There’s a soft crooning behind him, a song in Spanish.

Klaus always had shitty luck.

“Luther?”

He sighs and lays his head against the door. He feels the pinpricks of tears on his eyes. That stupid ghost is going to kill him.

He can see her, hands closing on air and mimicking something breaking. Her vicious smile makes him imagine Allison. Her face pale, choking while that woman squeezes her neck. Draining the life out of her. 

He takes a deep shuddering breath. “Hello? C’mon!”

He cannot believe that right now is the time that Luther chooses to be difficult. His hands are already shaking, the abuelita is starting to get agitated.

“Hi? Damn it, open up Luther, you insufferable prick !”

The abuelita croons. Cuatro, why are you running?

From the corner of his eye, Klaus can see the woman Allison had rumored walking towards him. Her eyes darkening slowly and her form wispier and fainter as she nears. Some parts of her are more defined now, the slow gushing blood and the small white spot he’d seen peeking from her neck, which he realizes now are actually the tips of her bones sticking out. She flashes him a smile, her teeth painted red.

He turns around and starts kicking the door with his feet and hitting it with his fists more frantically.

“Christ on a…”

He cuts himself off with a desperate whine. “I don't get paid enough for this!”

And as he’s making a new plan: Run to Vanya’s room and break down her door, so she won’t have a choice but let him stay with her,— he contemplates Allison’s door for a moment, but he decides on Vanya, who’s more likely to let him in because God knows if he tried that on Allison, then Luther would come out, but just to snap his neck in half,— the door swings open.

Luther sticks his head out, frown in place. His eyes are rimmed red. Klaus has never been happier to see him.  

“None of us do, Klaus. It’s our family duty.”

Of course, Luther would open the door only to scold him. But all that matters right now is that the door is open! Afraid to waste his own unexpected luck, Klaus ducks under Luther’s right arm and makes a beeline for his bed.

“What are you—” Luther whirls around, an indignant expression on his face. “Get out of my room!”

He holds the door open with one of his arms, his face angry. From the small opening on the door, Klaus can see a flash of blue.

Klaus pretends to ignore him and jumps on Luther’s bed, it’s soft and smells fresh, the sheets crisp and clean. He bounces gently.

Nice, he thinks.

It confirms whatever shit Diego had been going on about last week. Surprisingly he’d been right, Dad had bought Luther new furniture. Kudos for being the favorite, he guesses. He wouldn’t know. His bed is lumpy and uneven, but Klaus isn’t about to complain. Dear old Dad wouldn't be above making Klaus sleep on the floor if he knew he was being ungrateful.

“Comfy new bed, isn’t it Lulu?” Klaus says instead, crossing his arms behind his head. He sticks his feet beneath the covers and snags a pillow to prop himself up.

Luther clenches his fists. “Klaus, get out.”

Klaus closes his eyes, drumming his fingers against his knees. He waits for a moment, cracks an eye open and finds Luther still staring, jaw clenched.

“Nah,” he says, batting a hand in a shooing motion.

Luther hunches over, the tips of his ears turning red. “Four, get out!”

Klaus shakes his head and then grimaces.

Shit, Four? Well, that sure is bad. It seems like the old man did quite a number on Luther. Klaus remembers suddenly the pacing and the red-rimmed eyes. And frankly, it’s a little unnerving to see Luther this shaken up. Which doesn't mean he doesn't get like that sometimes, just that it’s usually after missions gone wrong.  

There is an uncomfortable feeling pooling in his belly.

Klaus sits up quickly and plasters a wide grin on his face. “Well, One,” he begins teasingly but cuts himself off when notices Luther isn't even paying him the slightest bit of attention.

He’s staring, brow furrowed, at something on the floor. Klaus cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of—

Oh, he thinks. 

Laying on the floor is one of Luther’s model airplanes. The ones they used to build together when they were little. It’s the red one. The original edition of 1999, Klaus remembers. He had gotten it when they’d been twelve or so.

It had been a gift for Luther after he’d announced his intention of being the first man to go to the moon, which had been quickly rebutted by Five pointing out someone has already gone to the moon, you halfwit.

So, he’d changed it to be the youngest man to go the moon. Through his excited rambling, something rare on his brother, Klaus had caught a glimpse of his father’s slow pleased smile.

Next week, Luther had been assigned extra lessons.

Of course, all the siblings had tutors and classes on science, maths and the like, but apart from that they also knew various fighting styles and how to use several weapons. Relating to their powers, the one thing their father always pushed them to harness, he’d chosen particular lessons for each one of them to learn how to improve them. And Luther had gotten the flight training classes he’d always wanted.

They had gotten presents for their birthdays, all wrapped carefully in shiny paper with big ribbons. Small cards with greetings written in a poor imitation of their father’s elegant handwriting were tucked inside.

Maybe that’s why Klaus had seen Luther going to their father’s study to thank him personally. He’d still thought Luther was an idiot though. How could their father even choose their gifts if he didn't know them? All of them knew pretty well their father had nothing to do with their gifts. It was obvious.

It had been years, but he’d never quite worked up the courage to tell him he’d seen Mom wrapping the gifts on the kitchen and Pogo browsing through space magazines.

They had all gathered to open their gifts. The next thing Klaus remembers is them sitting on the floor, passing the pieces of Luther’s new model plane around, giggling quietly.

His fingers were the longest so he knew how to bend the trickier parts to make them fit. At his side, Diego assembled one of the wings hurriedly, always trying to one-up Luther. Luther and Allison worked quietly on the other wing. Though Klaus remembers that at one point Allison had gotten so frustrated, she’d tried to rumor the plane into building itself. Five had observed the whole process with that perpetual bored look on his face, while Ben had eagerly moved to help Klaus. Hours after they started, Vanya had slipped discreetly and offered her small set of markers to decorate the model. Luther had said no.

And now that plane lays on the floor, nearly destroyed.

Klaus swallows, twisting around to get a better look.

It’s sitting upside down, crooked on one side and one of the wings is falling off, hanging on barely by the splinters. He recalls the loud thud earlier. His father's displeased voice, calling Luther childish and naive.

He clears his throat and starts again: “Well, One. Um, hello?” He lets the annoyance seep into his words, hoping Luther will turn around and start on his stupid nonsense. Luther stays there, crouching on the floor, looking down on his plane— silent. Luther’s never been the silent sort.

“Oh? No, ‘Don’t call me that. Only Dad gets to call me Number One’ crap?” Klaus twirls one of his necklace’s beads around his fingers. He shoots Luther a cheery smile. Nothing.

He frowns.

“Hey.” Klaus drops the teasing tone from his voice.

He crosses his arms and straightens up, to seem more presentable. His skin itches, but he can admit it’s way easier to act serious when he’s a little sober. Luther may need serious right now. No more doing a funny voice to cheer his siblings up. He sneaks a quick peek at the door, no surprise the spirits are still there, but they don't call for him.

For the first time in a while, Klaus feels a plucky sort of courage. He stands up from the bed and wobbles to where Luther is. Uncertain, he reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder.

Luther turns, his face is half hidden by the shadows, but Klaus can see the twist of his lip and the stiffness of his shoulders. He looks a little more like himself now. His chin is tilted high and though his back isn't straight, his hands are curled into fists. He stands up and stares him down. Luther’s always been the tallest of his siblings. 

As if burned, Klaus retracts his hand quickly, curling it around his necklace. There’s a beat of silence.

“Luther,” Klaus starts.

His brother beats him to it. “What are you doing here Klaus?” Then he sighs, dragging a hand over his face.

Klaus hesitates. Well, he knows that to bring up the fact that they both know he heard Dad scolding Luther won't turn out well. So he rolls his shoulders back and looks at his brother. He cracks a grin, Luther’s somber face makes him queasy. 

“Y’know One-sy dearest,” he says with a breezy tone. “It’s dark out and with all the freaky rain, well... The odds of you surviving a horror movie are the lowest. I’ve come to protect you!”

Luther scowls.

Time for some truth then. Klaus drops the grin.

“I can't sleep,” he admits. “There’s someone in my room. Several someones actually.” He musters up an airy smile, waves his hand around a bit. “Nasty bunch, really.”

Luther scoffs. He crosses his arms and surveys Klaus with a disappointed look, that makes him squirm.  “Then tell them to go away. You don’t seem to listen to me, but they’ll listen to you.”

So that’s it then? Even getting scolded by Dad won’t take the stick up his ass. Klaus wants to be impressed, but he’s just tired. He grits his teeth, but before he has the chance to explain himself, Luther beats him to it.

“God, Klaus can’t you make an effort?”

Klaus tenses. There’s a part of him that wants to leave, that thinks that maybe he’ll open the door and let the ghosts swallow him up. That be funny, wouldn't it? Maybe Luther could finally see he’s not kidding around. It’s a fleeting, stupid thought because he knows damn well he’d rather jump from the window than stay a second longer than necessary with the spirits.

He could just leave, knock down Vanya’s door and sleep on the ground. If he runs fast enough he can avoid the ghosts altogether. 

He’s already halfway through the room when he stops, hand hovering over the doorknob. Luther’s taken his place on the bed. He’s staring at him with narrowed eyes. 

It’s like he’s daring him to leave. But what does he want? Klaus could go and prove Luther wrong and stay in his room and also prove him right because if he leaves, he’s the coward that runs away that easily. He could prove him right too and stay and see that smug look on his face because either way Klaus staying or leaving still brands him a coward. And in their father’s world, no coward can be a hero. Letting go of the doorknob, he thinks it’s a good thing he hates being a hero.

Really hoping Luther won’t throw him through the window, he sits on the bed. Klaus curls his hands around his knees and tucks them against his chest. They sit there for a moment in silence.  

“I heard,” he says, then pauses for a moment trying to find the exact words. “Well, that. ”

Luther huffs a short breath that just sounds kind of sad and a lot pathetic, and mimics him, curling his arms around his knees. He looks expectantly at Klaus, an odd look on his face. 

“And well, I just wanna—I want to say that—”

The words get stuck on his throat. Because what is he going to say, really? The truth? There’s so much thing he wants to tell Luther. Dad’s a prick, he wants to say. You deserve better, we all do. But he can’t. He cannot say that. Because even though Luther’s hurt and wounded and sad, and Klaus can’t ever remember a time he’s seen him like this before, he knows Luther won’t stand to hear anything bad about Dad.

Klaus can still see that his red-rimmed eyes scream guilt, instead of disappointment. He isn’t disappointed in Dad and his stupid choices, he’s guilty. And like always he’ll go later and tell Dad he’s sorry and work harder. Maybe it’s time that Klaus finally admits his brother may be too far gone.

“Dad shouldn’t have yelled. I don’t,” he hesitates then, a little confused. “Why is he even mad anyway? You are his number uno, yeah?

“I failed the test. The written test I have to take before I can be allowed to fly on my own.” 

Oh, Klaus remembers now. Luther had told all of them last week, Diego had rolled his eyes. His extracurricular was swimming, he hated it. It’s Tuesday already, Klaus wants to ask, but that’ll just remind Luther of the drugs so he says: “Well, that sucks.” 

“I’m doing,” Luther cuts himself off, his lips a tight line. “I’m doing everything. I’ve never failed him. It’s just—” 

“It’s just a dumb test. You can take it again. And what does it—” What does it matter? Because Klaus would be glad to flunk out and make Dad not speak to him for a few days. That sounds like a vacation alright. He even thinks Ben would do it too, even though he’s always been a little too soft-hearted and the third of them to have faith in Dad.   

“No, no. I failed the test. I should own up to it.”

Klaus hums. “Well, you’ll get it next time though.” 

It’s not something he’d tell his other siblings, because there’s no concept of second chances for them. For Luther though? Their father seems to hold him in a special sort of regard. It sucks most of the time, but Klaus is glad he can do it again this time. He doesn’t think Luther could get over failing.

There’s a little light in Luther's eyes and he offers Klaus a poor attempt of a smile. Still better than nothing, so he takes it. 

“And look what that— what Dad said, doesn’t matter. And really look, breaking the 2001 replica of Wimp Plane A-something Whatever—” 

“It’s not a replica Klaus! It’s the original edition! Wright Model Airplane Glider from 1999—”

Klaus grins and Luther stops, a surprised look on his face. He shakes his head and shoots him a look, the corners of his lips turning up. 

“Well. That thing you just said, yeah. Breaking it was dumb. He clearly doesn’t appreciate our masterpiece! Dad’s not very fond of art, oui ?” 

Luther stays silent, looking at Klaus contemplatively.

“C’mon. You got some glue?”

They gather all the pieces and a bottle of glue Luther had found tucked on one of his drawers, which had clearly seen better days and got into work. 

While he pours glue into a piece of paper they are using as a makeshift palette, Klaus talks. “You are going to pass the damn thing, and you are going to fly us to our next mission. God, I hope it’s in Paris, I need some new boots.

Luther makes a face. Allison had loved Paris shopping a little too much. Klaus keeps on going: “And while you’re on it you better get a title to be ship captain too. It’ll be hilarious.” 

“Ship captain?”

“Y’know,” Klaus drawls. “Instead of air, you get to explore the sea. That’d be neat. You’ll be like Blackbeard, but blonder. The captain of the ship, if I may.”   

Klaus knows Ben would like that, he’s always wanted to see the sea. Diego would too, though he’d pretend not too because it’s Luther and also because he’s Diego. But he’d be secretly grateful to be out of the water for once. He thinks Allison would enjoy it as long as they had a fancy sort of ship and Vanya would be staying home so it shouldn't matter to her either way.

Luther rolls his eyes. “Klaus—” 

“O, Captain! My Captain! Wasn’t it?” Klaus starts grinning.

Ben had a book on the Walty guy who’d written that poem. He loved to read aloud to it, and that had been the poem he’d chosen to recite for their homework last month. Klaus had forgotten his. It had been about a horse and winter and walking in the woods. But that’s all he remembered from it. It hadn’t meant he hadn’t liked it, but he’s always been good at remembering things he’s heard rather than read.  

“Our fearful trip is done. The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won.”

He cracks a grin and stands up on the bed, bouncing softly. Luther swears and holds the pieces he’s fixing tighter. 

“The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting!”

Klaus hoots and raises his arms grinning, looking as he might be receiving a standing ovation. He feels like the pretty lady from the film Allison had chosen the other night, standing arms spread out. He imagines a ship, them going on fun missions for once and then getting the ice cream he knows Ben likes. It sounds like a dream. His eyes are soft and a little sad when he looks at Luther, who is pouring glue on a new part of the plane. 

Klaus feels giddy in a way he hasn’t feel in a while. His skin doesn’t itch anymore. He bounces off the bed unto the floor with a loud crack. Luther looks at the door alarmed.

Twirling, he picks up a piece and begins working on it, all while not stopping the poem. “While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring—”

Klaus yelps as Luther yanks him down by pulling on his pajama pants.

“Sit down, Klaus,” he hisses. “You are going to wake Allison up.”

He’s being plenty stupid, but Allison’s room is the closest and Luther’s always has had a soft spot for her, so he nods and sits. He resumes fixing his piece.  After a while, they’ve glued most of the pieces together. Klaus picks up the body of the plane, they just have to tick on a missing wing and it’s done. 

“Hey Luther,” he says.

“Mmmh?”

“I’m putting this on the bed m’kay?” Luther looks up from the last wing he’s trying to fix and nods. 

Klaus, cradling the body of the plane, goes to burrow under the blankets. He turns it around so he can see the belly.

His breath hitches. He’d almost forgotten. 

There on fading maker are written down seven names, all squished together. He traces Five’s name with the tip of his finger, which is written in dark red that stands out for the big, bold letters and smiles at Vanya’s small handwriting in soft blue marker beside it. Allison’s name is in thick curly letters beside Klaus’ thin, green one. Diego and Luther had picked the same shade of blue, of course. Their names the largest of all the bunch. And Ben had drawn a smiley face next to his name in orange.

He traces Five’s name once more and buries his head on Luther’s soft new pillow.

It’s soft and squishy and damn does the bed feel really good. It’s warm. It’s better than the sleeping pills he takes sometimes, which only make him feel fuzzy and drowsy. He’ll have to switch the pillow with one of his and hope Luther doesn’t notice. 

Luther turns off the lamp that had lit them on their makeshift project casting the room a dark shade, still, there’s a soft glow coming from his right. Klaus notices the soft orange glow that comes from the window.

It paints the plane in a myriad of colors and he remembers suddenly signing his name with his siblings. Diego’s grin and Five smirking like he always did when he accomplished something he’d deemed particularly important. The light is warm and solid and he thinks he might even be fine with the ghosts if they didn't glow that pale dreary blue that reminds him of Five and that he’s long since associated with death.

Maybe he falls asleep or something because the next thing he knows is Luther’s face peering down at him. Having the plane taken from his arms and being tucked in firmly. He thinks he catches a whisper of a good night, but he doesn’t much care. So he rolls over and sighs, closing his eyes tightly to avoid the filtering rays of sunrise that pierce through the thick glass.

When he wakes the next morning it’s already late. Luther’s nowhere to be found.

Klaus could hit him. But then he remembers waking up bundled up on all the blankets and wearing a pair of socks he’s sure aren’t his, and the urge to hit Luther passes. 

And so, Klaus tumbles to breakfast, his uniform put on haphazardly, not even bothering with his hair.

In the dining room standing behind their chairs are all his siblings. At the right hand of the head of the table stands Luther, uniform crisp and clean, chin up. Across of him, Allison frowns, looking annoyed at his delay, while tapping her foot impatiently.

Ben shoots him a concerned look. He must look like a mess, Klaus realizes, if Ben’s looking at him like that. He can feel all of his siblings staring. But he doesn’t really care, too busy rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It’s been a long time since he’s had such a good sleep.

Who cares if he looks awful? He certainly doesn't feel so. Smudged eyeliner, the new fashion.

“Number Four,” their father calls out sharply, entering the room.

Well, there’s someone who always cares. Isn’t it fun?

There’s a pause, their father staring at him and Klaus looking right at his mustache, avoiding his eyes altogether. Finally their father sighs and nods. “Sit,” he calls out.

They hurry to sit and eat. Klaus reaches for his fork, ready to stuff himself full of food so he won’t say something stupid. The best course of action seems to avoid telling Dad something that may anger him more. But the ball’s already rolling.

“Number Four, you weren’t in your room in the morning, you’ve shown up—”

Klaus tunes him out as always. On the other side of the table, he can see Luther staring between him and Dad with a furrowed brow. Their father continues.

“—and now this? You’ve truly outdone yourself this time,” their father keeps on going.

“Dad?”

All heads swivel to look at Number One. Luther’s never one to interrupt.

Diego eyes him critically, cutting into his pancakes. There’s a little quirk on his lips he always makes whenever he’s entertained by something. Vanya looks a little panicked. Through his confusion, Klaus remembers Five speaking up just like that and then disappearing forever. But Vanya’s being silly because Luther won’t go and leave like Five. 

Their father frowns. “Number One?” He also sounds a little shocked, like he isn’t expecting him to interrupt the strictly silent breakfast.

“Yes, sir. I want to ask something from you, please.” Luther squares his shoulders and starts talking about the exam. He wants to take it again of course. “I know I can be ready to take it again next week.”

Their father starts talking, there’s an odd glint on his eyes that Klaus is familiar with. He just never thought it’d be directed at Luther of all people. It’s gone in a blink. Their father lets an empty, practiced smile spread across his face and starts pairing Luther for the compromise, loyalty and whatever jumbo he’s into. 

Through the speech, Luther shoots Klaus a smug look, with a dip of his head. It’s not meant to be arrogant, Klaus realizes. It feels like kinship. He beams and raises his glass of orange juice in a silent toast. He mouths Thanks.  

Luther gives him an awkward grimace, which almost makes Klaus laugh. Maybe he was wrong. There may be hope for Luther yet.

There’s still a long road ahead and miles to go before the end.

Chapter Text

Those still marked by claws and cloudburst,
that boy who cries because he doesn’t know bridges exist,
or that corpse that has nothing more than its head and one shoe—
they all must be led to the wall where iguanas and serpents wait,
where the bear’s teeth wait,
where the mummified hand of a child waits
and the camel’s fur bristles with a violent blue chill.

Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.
No one sleeps.

- by Federico García Lorca, Ciudad sin sueño

The night of their tenth birthday, the dark-eyed grandmother from across the street comes back. 

Klaus doesn’t notice her at first. Their tenth birthday had been their most exciting yet. First was Mom’s gift: names and Dad’s: a highly dangerous stealth mission. Top secret, as usual. Dad called it ‘high tension training’ and ‘preparing for what’s to come’. For most of his siblings, it was simply another exercise, before their great debut; for Klaus, it was just a little better than the usual torture. 

If Dad’s gift had been nothing short of awful, Mom’s outshone it by miles. 

After so much time wondering why they were the only ones with numbers or why did Dad, Mom and Pogo didn't have them either, the time finally had come.

Following their successful mission,— busting a kidnapper ring or as Diego called it: kicking ass, —they returned home. Dad wasn't anywhere nearby. He usually locked himself in his study all day on that particular date. The only contact they'd had was the debriefing that morning. They'd never celebrated a birthday with him and it was unlikely they ever would. Klaus didn't really mind.

After all, the reason their birthday was Klaus' favorite day of the year, was because it was meant to be a Dad Free Day. No Dad staring them down through his monocle, grey eyebrows furrowed in displeasure; no shouting or thinly veiled threats, his never-changing face shrouded in disappointment. Of course, not everyone saw it that way. Luther sulked, which gave Diego plenty of fun opportunities to rile him up, even though his own smile would sometimes waver, and that those such nights he'd stay awake perfecting his training exercises.

Klaus figured it was a lost cause. There was no impressing Dad if he didn't want you to.

Mom gathered them all after lunch, took them to the drawing-room and announced cheerily they were getting names. 

They had stood in line. Mom would take them aside, leaning down to whisper a suggestion: the name she'd picked and why. If they liked it, they would say yes, if no she'd chosen plenty of other names, all with special reasons.

Klaus,—then Four,—had stood in line, bumping shoulders with an irritated Five, who was trying to talk to Six. At his right, Three had watched One eagerly, mimicking the silly smile that had sprung on his face once Mom had given him his name. Seven stared at the floor.

Four watched Two and Mom, their heads bowed and talking quietly. He fiddled with the hem of his sweater, wondering what on Earth was taking them so long. One's turn had been brief and quick. He'd been named Luther and sent to wait at the other side of the room, from where he shot them a wide grin.

Four huffed, trying to ignore the whispers from a little dead girl, who sat curled up on the sofa.

What would Dad say if he saw her, dirty shoes and bloody dress on the fine leather? If it were anyone else, he might be scolding and furious, but Four wagered his eyes would go cold, as they often did, and he'd ask with a flat tone for answers. Or he'd be so impressed Four had managed to show him a ghost he'd give him that smile he rarely wore. It was an odd sort of smile, not unlike the one Three practiced in the mirror in her room, too white and perfect. But it would be a smile, and it would be just for Four.

Four tried to suppress a shudder when the little girl fussed over her dress, her pout stained red, and turned towards his siblings.

"No way," Three was whispering urgently. Five, beside her, snorted. 

Four talked through a practiced smile, wary of Pogo who stood at the foot of the door. "'No', what?"

Three rolled her eyes. "Five thinks Two is going to reject he— his name. I don't think so, Two loves Mom—"

"And that's exactly the reason why—"

"There's no way he'll— You just don't wanna admit you are wrong."

"Excuse me?"

Four left Five and Three to their bickering. Six and Seven had their heads bent close, speaking in hushed whispers, so he turned towards Mom and Two once more, tapping his feet impatiently. What was taking so long?

“What’s taking them so long?” Six echoed, wrapping his arms around his belly. He shuffled one of his feet around the floor, squirming with the all familiar expression of dread Four knew well enough. Shooting Six a goofy smile that made him crack a grin, Four nudged him towards the conversation. “Look.” 

Two's eyes glinted in the low light of the drawing-room. Four saw him shake his head, and surprisingly hesitant, beckon Mom closer and whisper in her ear. Whatever he must have said, made her blink once, twice and a crease appear between her smooth brows. Her face smoothed quickly enough, the painted smile coming back to her face.

Seven raised her head. “What’s going on?”

Five hushed her, staring at the pair intently. He’d once claimed he could read lips, but Four really couldn’t figure out how he’d do it with Mom and Two’s heads bent so closely together that their hair almost merged with each other. 

“Did he say no to the name?” Six’s voice was incredulous. He tightened his arms around himself. “Can we do that?”

Four slipped an arm around one of Six's.

"Well," he shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I know I’m not letting her name me something like John or Fred. Hey Five, maybe you’ll get named Freddy or something.” 

Five glared. He hadn't taken Four's joke about being named Wart well, and not even his "But you'll get the name of a king, like yours truly!" had made him less mad. 

"Maybe you'll have the once in a lifetime option of being Reginald Junior? Whadda ya think, Five? Or shall I start calling you Reggie?"

Five's glare deepened. Well, it seemed the name jokes were making him nervous. 

"Gross," muttered Six. 

Three wrinkled her nose. Four wondered if she was imagining a future where she was Reginal-da? Reginalda? Regina? It would surely mess with her starry-eyed dream of being a model. Or was it being a princess now? Princess Reginalda sounded awful. 

Six was right: Gross. 

His siblings' expressions hardly changed, but he could see a newfound apprehension that wasn't there before, so he said: "Don't worry lads, if I have to sacrifice myself I'll take being the Junior over all of you. Though One —Luther might try to fight me for the honor."

"I’m taking any name I can get," said Seven, rubbing her arm. Out of the corner of his eye, Four saw Five watching her with a frown. Deciding it wasn’t any of his business, he turned toward Mom and Two. 

Mom’s smooth lips shifted into a smile, and she bent down once more to whisper in Two’s ear. She must’ve suggested another name because Two perked up instantly. He hugged Mom, who ran a hand thought his chopped hair. 

"It's your turn," Seven said in a hushed whisper. Three, too nervous to respond, bounced over to stand at Two’s side, as Mom rested her hands on his shoulders and said: “Luther, welcome your brother Diego.”

Four's face split into a grin. 

Luther stood up from the couch, his mouth hanging open. Mom nudged Two— now Diego— forward. Three shot Luther a look and he clamped his mouth shut.

They shared an awkward glance, before hugging. Diego’s arms stiff around Luther, who hugged him back gingerly as if afraid he might hurt him, and also afraid he might offend Diego's pride by worrying about that. Four laughed quietly and at his side, Five rolled his eyes and Six smiled. Seven tugged on her hair, her mouth resembling a smile.

From where he was hugging Luther, Diego shot Four a look, raising his eyebrows. 

"Seriously?" he mouthed.

Four shook his head beaming. Diego and Luther sprung apart, but Four could see Diego's little pleased smile when he turned away. 

Despite the way, Dad often pitted them against each other, and the way they could bicker and fight almost every day, for almost every reason, they had each other's backs no matter what. And though their fights were fierce and sometimes almost scared poor Seven to death, they were always silly and pointless.

Still, even if the next morning before breakfast, they'd be made up and acting all friendly with jokes and grins, after lunch, without fail, they'd be fighting again. 

Three called it a rivalry. Four knew better. 

No matter what Diego did, even if it meant working harder than anyone, Dad never said anything. Five said that was because Dad was a "narcissistic old sot," Four just thought he could just be too unkind sometimes. If he surely didn't mean it, maybe things would be better in time. And in time, that dream he'd have about Dad's smile along with all the rest would come true. If not, well he couldn't even dare think that.

He eyed Diego, flipping his knife over and over. Training harder and harder, he thought. It certainly was something. 

"Well," came Mom's voice. Four glanced her way to see Three standing impatiently. "Let's go ahead. Three, dear, if you'd just. . ." 

Three got named Allison. She flounced towards their two brothers and obnoxiously pecked them both on the cheek, leaving two pink marks from her— or rather Mom's— lipstick. Her normally tidy hair was uncharacteristically ruffled, but she didn't seem to care. Four saw her stand on her tiptoes whisper something in Luther's ear, who cracked a smile. Diego rolled his eyes, fiddling with one of his many knives and standing a little to the side. 

Shooting Diego a look, Four strode forward.

Mom bent down and whispered: "Klaus. That's the name I choose for you. Do you like it, dear?"

Four nodded enthusiastically, his throat tight. He couldn't speak, too busy turning the name around his head. Klaus, Klaus, Klaus. It was. . . pretty. What did it mean? Why had Mom chosen it?

But well, he thought as he pressed his teary eyes against Mom's soft sweater, did it even matter?

He knew it could matter. After all, Diego's name mattered something to Diego, but it didn't have to mean anything to anyone else. But maybe, that it could matter didn't mean it should. Considering Dad hadn't given them any names. He'd given them numbers, which mattered to him, but not to Four. Except Diego cared way too much about the number thing. Oh contradictions, contradictions. 

Dad wore his name with pride,— all his trophies and medals in plain view around the mansion, — maybe Mom wanted them to wear theirs proudly too. Four untangled himself from Mom and beamed at her. He would make her proud. 

“Well,” she said clapping her hands. “That’s settled then. Children, welcome your brother Klaus.”

The newly named Klaus turned towards Mom. “Do our names have to do anything from where we come from?” Mom’s face remained as smooth and impassive as ever, but Klaus couldn’t ignore Pogo shifting on his feet from where he was standing at the door. 

The all too bright smile was back. “Perhaps, dear. Now go on, it’s your brother’s turn.”

He stood aside to let Five stride ahead, an odd glint in his eye. 

Klaus was soon accosted by his siblings. Diego slung an arm over his shoulder with a grin and ruffled his hair. Luther's pat on his back almost sent him reeling to the floor, and Allison left a lipstick mark to match the others. 

"Do you think," Klaus began, turning to Diego, who was hiding a smile, watching an embarrassed Luther try to rub out the lipstick from his cheek and just making a bigger mess out of it. "Do you think the names mean anything?"

"'Course," Diego said, raising an eyebrow a little condescendingly.

Klaus rolled his eyes. 

"Not like that you—" he sighed. "No, I mean. Like where we come from or- or— I-I don't know—"

"Thought I was the only st-t-tu-ttering mess 'round here, bro." 

Klaus felt the nudge of a foot against his, his brother's face turned downwards. The smile he wore was just a little too sharp, like back when he'd been just Two. And when Dad used to take them an isolated forest and leave them there with for a whole week to fend for themselves. Except he'd always be Two, except he really wasn't anymore. Two, four, two, four: The sound of yet another ghost, who was slamming his head against the wall, over and over. 

Klaus could feel Pogo's gaze heavy on his back, so he nudged Diego's foot back and nodded.

While the old butler had always been, not exactly kind to them, but loads better than Dad, it didn't mean much if it interfered with Dad's plans. And asking those type questions would sooner turn this day from Dad Free to very Mausoleum Pijama Party. 

And he wouldn't— couldn't— go there, not on his birthday. Not again. 

Dad considered the knowledge of their birth mothers or where they came from dangerous. And he didn't want them to know it. A small part of Klaus agreed with him. He knew most of his siblings agreed with him. Hell, it'd be hard not to. Who'd want to know the name of the woman who gave them up? Gave them up to this house with their father's cold eyes and even colder fingers clutching his wrist while he dragged him away, screaming—

No, Klaus wasn't interested. At all.

He knew the others had been at one time. He'd caught Allison staring pointedly at the mirror more than once and Ben had told him he sometimes wondered if they looked like them at all. 

And then there was Diego.

Not long after Mom had arrived, but before she'd slowly turned from Nanny Grace to simply Mom, Diego had told him he wanted to try to find his birth mother. Allison, overhearing, asked how exactly would he get Dad to take them to every country in the world, seeing as he didn't even know where he'd been born. Diego dropped the topic and the next week he was the first to call Grace Mom. 

Watching Five telling Mom something that made her normally composed face flicker, Klaus took the chance and curled his pinky around Diego's, waiting while their remaining siblings got their names. 

Pogo’s gift had been lame in comparison. Although if anything was as good as Pogo's gifts, then Klaus liked lame. 

Well, he'd liked Pogo’s gift better than Dad’s anyway.

Usually, they opened their presents in one of their rooms. This once, Mom mentions she’d baked cake,— chocolate cake! They’d never had that kind of flavor before,— so while she’s finishing up in the kitchen; they gather on the drawing-room to open their gifts.

The gifts sit in the coffee table, wrapped in shiny paper and colorful ribbons. Klaus ignores the card wishing him a happy birthday in a lousy attempt at their father’s handwriting and starts tearing the gift open.  

Yes, he thinks fiercely as soon as he sees the watercolor kit. Pogo’s outdone himself this year.

At his left, Luther and Five, who’ve already opened theirs, bicker about the merits of swapping books. 

Klaus sees Diego frowning down at his gift. From where he is Klaus can’t see it properly, so he walks over and plops down. “Hello, brother mine. What’d you get?”

Diego shifts his hand so the red paper wrapping will hide the gift. “Some lame thing. Nothin’ important.” 

He watches him, daring him to say something. His newly cut hair falls over his forehead. Klaus gifts him an airy smile, eyeing the way the rubs a knife against his leg, trying to get out a stain, then turns to Three,— Allison.

“So,” he starts. 

She’s got her own gift laying on her lap, while she writes in her diary. She’d insisted every girl needed to have one to document ‘important events’ and ‘private thoughts’. And who knew where she’d gotten that idea, maybe a magazine. 

He glances over her shoulder to see her writing her new name over and over again in thick, curly letters. She’d scratched off the Three on the purple cover and replaced it with Allison. 

“Why not Alyson? With a ‘y’.”

Allison wrinkles her nose. “Tacky. And it’s meant to be after Alice in Wonderland, dummy. Mom said so. Because it’s the,” she pauses and then brightens as if suddenly remembering something. “It is the dopest movie ever!”

“Tha- that weird movie?”

Klaus snickers.

“What’s dopest?” asks Six, now Benjamin.

Five, who had kept his name either out of spite or pride, snorts and flicks to the next page of his book. He sure seems angsty for someone who's getting to skip his day of training, then again Five's always been the type to like it.

“The dopest is Hercules,” Seven— Vanya says quietly enough that Klaus almost doesn’t hear her. She shifts the thick folder of music sheets she’d gotten, her face shy. Luther, who’s now sitting next to her as he’d apparently failed to get Five to lend him a book, nods. It’s his favorite movie too. 

Allison rolls her eyes. “It’s a word. It means when something is the best ever. Bet you didn’t know that, huh Five?”

“Of course I did. You left your magazine in the living room…”

“Magazine?” Luther exclaims.

Diego huffs and nudges Klaus, who has to smother a disbelieving laugh. 

“You know. . . out on the open? I had to put it back in your room, lest the old man finds out.” Five gives a little smug smile. “No need to thank me, of course. I did read it, but it was very stupid.”

Allison swells up, indignant. “Stupid?”

“Why would I waste my time reading about nail polish and what my zodiac sign says about my future? Anyone with a brain knows they're lies.”

“That’s not true—”

“Woah, woah. Can we— can we talk about the magazine?  Three, where did you g-get it?” 

Five ignores Diego. “We all share the same birthday Three! We are all not going to have to embrace the word new! New places, new people, new things —”

“I’d love to meet new people for a change,” mutters Benjamin dejectedly.

“But Allison, Dad said—” 

“Will you shut up about Dad?” 

“—it doesn’t lie! It’s our birthday, of course, there’s going to be new things!” 

“Wait a tick. How did you get the magazine? Did you sneak out?” 

Allison grins, and Klaus feels delighted. Only Allison would be so brave! “I persuaded Pogo to get me one.” 

Diego lets out a whistle. “You rumored Pogo for a magazine?” he asks, sounding awfully impressed. Please, as if Klaus hasn't seen him with Allison's health magazines from time to time. At his side, Luther buries his head on his hands. 

They all start speaking over each other at once.

“Ally, can you make him get me my own magazine?” 

“Do you think we can get more movies?” 

“Um, yeah, our tape of Mulan is too old. We need a nuh— a new one.” 

“Mulan? Really?” Five scoffs. “Our tape for the Sword on the Stone is the oldest. Logically, we should get a replacement for that one first.”

Klaus slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle his snickers, over Diego's indignant expression. He'd watched Mulan so many times he'd even told Dad he wanted to learn sword fighting. So that's not his gift then. Pogo certainly wouldn't approve of a sword. Mom might give him one if he just asked. 

"You're just saying that because it's your favorite—"

"I think Herc—”

“Hold on. You want the same movies? Three needs to rumor him, so we’ll get new ones!”

Mom's voice rings through the drawing-room, the faint thud of Pogo's footsteps following her. They all turn, forgetting their fight. Klaus nudges Diego, who's got a starstruck look in his face, and takes the chance to slip a hand inside his pocket. Mom walks in carrying the cake with exactly seven candles on top lit up and singing a song he's never heard before. 

Must be a new feature, Klaus thinks, looking at Pogo's satisfied smile. He shrugs and, pocketing Diego's knife, follows his siblings.

For a few hours, everything seems alright. They spent most of their birthday laughing in between bites of chocolate cake and showing off their gifts. When Diego cracks a joke that makes Luther curse, Klaus could swear Five even seems to smile. All in all, he enjoys their ever-steady company, their bodies close enough that no ghost tries to slip through, though he does see one of their old nannies gliding along the hall. 

But that night, when he’s alone in his room, the dark-eyed grandmother comes back. 

Klaus's so concentrated dipping carefully his new brush in his new watercolors, a hand on top of the wrinkling paper that when he sees her, he knocks the set and it clatters to the floor. He stands up quickly, breathing loudly, trying to avoid her gaze.

Still, unbidden her dark eyes bore into him, the grey hair curled and the clothes prim and proper. The knitting needles sticking out of her throat shine, a gruesome reminder. 

She'd been haunting him for three years now, far before anyone even thought to look for her. And when they did? He'd watched from the attic window, how the sheet-covered body was dragged out, the paramedics rushing about and the police lights flashing red and blue. It had been days and the silent ghost at his side was proof enough that there was no hope for rescue.

She'd been fine the first few days, voiceless and still. She'd been fine the next week, talking in hushed whispers and humming songs. She'd been fine. 

It begins with the humming. Then she dances around the room, cradling a part of her dress close. He hears the drip of blood pouring down from the hole in her throat; a stray curl is caught in one of the silver needles, sharp as knives, sharp enough to kill. 

Right, knives, he thinks. And takes out Diego's knife from where he'd hidden it in his bedside table. He'd meant to for training, for practicing. For impressing Dad maybe? But he reckons it'd do a better job at giving him some sort of safety. 

Klaus grips the knife tightly and watches her carefully.

She’s not alone this time. One of the kidnappers from that day's mission is with her. Klaus had watched him being brought down, face squashed against the dirty floor with one of Diego’s knives right between his eyes. Of course, he deserved it then, he was a criminal! But it doesn't mean Klaus deserves him haunting his room now.

The kidnapper's form is wispy, as he paces from side to side, hands behind his back. Klaus can remember that morning's debriefing, their profile built from a single wanted poster: Military training, three previous arrests of robbery, armed and dangerous. Do not interfere, call the police if you see anything suspicious. He's no match for anyone. 

"No match for us," Diego had boasted after landing his hit, readying another knife. A knot on his throat, Klaus let a loud laugh and promptly kneed another of the kidnappers in the stomach. 

The kidnapper keeps pacing. At his side, the grandmother folds her arms, one atop of the other, and mimes rocking them, swaying lightly at the pace of an imaginary tune only she can hear. Klaus shuts his eyes and desperately tries to ignore her. 

Eerily he can feel the ghosts who haunt the house, as they keep beckoning with a syrupy song that stings like too cold water. His hands tremble, the tips of his fingers shining blue. He thrusts his hands down and breathes once out and in, mimicking Diego's breathing exercises. He doesn't want to join them, he doesn't, will they just leave him alone—

He slams trembling hands to his ears and buries his face between his knees, the cold metal of Diego's knife pressed against his cheek. 

And then.

Then she sings. 

Klaus uncovers his ears because that's Spanish. Diego's been studying it for a while now. Stumbling over words and phrases, with an awful pronunciation, but improving. Klaus's never heard it spoken by anyone else. 

"No duerme nadie por el cielo. Nadie, nadie. No duerme nadie," she sings, dancing away. 

What does that mean? Maybe Diego would know, Klaus thinks as he crawls to the edge of his bed to hear her better, trying to ignore the scratching sounds on his door. It'd do him no good being so silly, time to square up and be a little useful for once. "Las criaturas de la luna huelen y rondan sus cabañas." 

Klaus follows her to the door of his room, where the loud scraping is impossible to ignore. There's no hearing her like this. He contemplates the shaking door, and cursing his brother, he goes and throws it open, before sprinting to his bed.

There's a flash of blue.

And the little girl from downstairs flops down beside him. One of her arms wades through his leg as if underwater. It's freezing. He gags, pressing down on his mouth to muffle the sound, and scampers to the other side of the bed. Klaus has to get away, to leave them, they can't get him—

We are one, they say. Klaus, come. We are one.

The grandmother's song reaches a new high, the bundle in her arms squirms, red dripping down and she looks down at it blankly. The girl turns, folding her hands over he blood-stained dress. You are us. We are one.

Klaus points Diego's knife threateningly. He tries to channel his brother, putting on a stern expression. "Hey. I'm warning you, alright? Leave me alo—" The glint of the knife seems more attractive than scary because just then the kidnapper's hand goes through his chest.  The knife drops to the floor. "Okay, alright, alright. Please? Please, stop it." 

The kidnapper swings his fist through Klaus and it's cold, his teeth are shattering, he shivers—

There's too much, too much to handle.  So he dives after the knife.

"— un muerto en el cementerio más lejano que se queja tres años, porque tiene un paisaje seco en la rodilla." She spins, her dance nearing him on the floor. "Y el niño que enterraron esta mañana lloraba tanto, tanto—"

She's screaming the song now, she won't stop and he can't find the knife. Klaus shouldn't, he's not going to. But his hands are wet from where he'd spilled his watercolors, they feel so cold and sticky and he huffs, clutching his knees hard. Klaus really shouldn't, but as he thinks of the red watercolor dripping and the blood on Diego's knife that morning he has to suppress the urge to gag.

On his bed, the little girl swings her legs, then she kicks up and one of them fades through his back. He relents.

"Matilde," he screams, face pressed on the floor, his hands patting it desperately in search of Diego's knife. The grandmother halts her song. "Stop it, Matilde."

Give them no names, he'd learned. Or they'll use it again you. 

But Matilde had been with him since he was seven, quiet and comforting the first few years; her presence at his shoulder oddly reassuring, even with her raw smile and the decorating of silver needles at her throat.  Beyond her, Klaus had never bothered with learning names. Matilde had told him her name when he was eight, called him Cuatro, her cold breath in his ear, her needles too close to his own throat. Then she'd raised her half shredded skirt between bony hands to wipe her tears, leaving a trail of red.

Her face stills, smooth and impassive like never before. An all too-bright smile overtakes her face, and for a long horrible moment she reminds him of Mom's static smile, but then she turns and slams the bundle against the wall with a loud splat and starts bawling the rest of the song: "No es sueño la vida. ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!"

There's something red dripping from where she'd hit his wall. Klaus snatches up the knife, finally, in time to see the other two crowding around her and for more to appear; pale faces, hushed voices, scrambling to look, to touch. 

Klaus runs stumbling, one hand clutching the knife, the other pressed to his mouth.

The rest of the screeched song fades behind him as he runs upstairs, taking two steps at the time. Where to go? He considers going to Benjamin,—he's passed Diego's room, Luther would kick him out without hesitation,— but remembers his miserable face, hands pressed to his stomach earlier and heads for the library instead. 

When he enters, one of the lamps is on. 

Maybe Benjamin is here, he likes to come to the library for fun. 

Klaus sits on a desk, it's hard and he might get splinters, but he's safer with lights, and going to his siblings would be risky. Dad doesn't let them have lights on after curfew. There are fewer ghosts here. Even so the thought sends makes him shudder and he briefly considers taking his chances with Five. Klaus pats his hands on his pants, leaving little fingerprints he tries to ignore.

Nah, he thinks, finally dry hands flipping the knife the air. He'd probably blackmail me or something.

A shadow falls over him.

“What are you doing?”

Klaus almost falls down from the desk. He brags the knife by the blade and with it comes a stinging pain in his hand. He cradles it, whining. He's screwed, it's Dad and he's going to take him there and he's hungry, he didn't mean it. The image of the dark mausoleum crawls over his mind and he starts rambling.  

"No, no, wait. I didn't mean to Daddy—" he shrieks and a hand slams on his mouth.

“Shudup, idiot."

His shoulders drop in relief. "Diego?" he tries to say, but it probably comes out as Deroh or something. 

“. . .S'that my knife?”

Oh damn. Klaus licks Diego's palm, making his brother scramble back and snatch his hand away, exclaiming: "Aw Four, gross." And giving him the chance to jump off the desk.

Diego stands in the low light of the library in his pajamas, a too big bathrobe Klaus is sure must be Luther's, with his knife harness fastened over it all. Tucked under his arm are a few books, one of Allison's magazines and a bundle of red paper.

"Did you—" Diego looks at Klaus' cradled hand nervously. "God, did you cut yourself? Lemme see."

Klaus jumps back. "No need for dramatics, Diego."

"Fine." His brother jerks his chin towards the knife. "What'd you need it for?"

Klaus hesitates. He considers the ghosts, crawling around his room. Matilde, who everyone else remembered as the kindly old lady that lived across the street, now dancing barefoot and singing in Spanish, screeching and bloodying his walls. Diego's own mistake pacing his room, hands tucked behind him. "Just wanted to practice," he lies. "To impre— to improve." 

Diego squints, before giving in.

“Here,” he says, holding out his hand for the knife. "You just gotta, flick your wrist like this and then you let go." His brother demonstrates the movement two times, before handing Klaus the knife, looking at him expectantly.

Klaus gets five shots and fails every time, but by the time he hands Diego back his knife, he's smiling a little and his hand no longer hurts. If Diego's disappointed that his teaching was for nothing, he doesn't show it. Instead, he gives Klaus an awkward pat on the back.  

"You'll, uh." Diego swallows. "You'll get it, bro."

"Thanks," replies Klaus. He flops down beside the desk.

Diego follows, setting his books behind him. Klaus smiles tightly and moves the lit lamp to the ground so he can see his brother better.

"You just gotta follow me. You heard Dad the other day: ‘Your shoots have improved, Number Two!’ That means that this? It works," he says with the determined air of someone who's never gotten a shot wrong. 

Diego's sure got a bad Dad impression, but he's also something he hadn't even begun to consider: “No way he’s sticking to our new names is he?” 

“No— nope. Even big ol’ One seems disappointed. I don’t know what he expected. He went to thank Dad, of all people, for his dumb book.”

So that was why Luther had asked him his opinion on a stanza he'd scribbled on a spare piece of paper. It was sweet and nice, and Dad would probably toss it in the trash without giving it a second glance. 

Klaus sighs and flutters his hands about, giving Diego a tired look. "I’m pretty sure if Dad gave us actual gifts they'd be like, rocks maybe?"

That gets a laugh out of his brother. He sits down across from Klaus, their knees knocking against each other's and gives him a nudge. His dark eyes light up. "‘Here. Maybe you’ll improve your aim.’"

Puffing out his chest, Klaus says in the most pretentious voice he can manage, "Let's see if you can rumor it into dancing the vals for me, Number Three! Oooh, Numbah Three—'" 

Diego gives a loud barking laugh.

"'One, One! Your task is to break it with only just your pinky! Not by sneezing on it.'" 

Klaus snorts. "C'mon, sneezing on it? That's dumb." He gives Diego a playful shove, grinning at him.

"Yeah," Diego huffs, his half-smile slips. "Yeah it is, isn't it?"

He's staring off quietly into the hallway, and Klaus has the feeling that those words aren't for him. They aren't for anyone else either, he thinks as he spots a ghost dancing in that direction, leaving blue at their wake. To him, all the ghosts have ever been good at was annoying and scaring him, but he guesses they could be pretty good at being sad too. Klaus can't blame them for it, so he can't blame Diego either. 

He sets his brow and hurries to his feet, thrusting a hand down to Diego. "C'mon. Let's go."

"Go? What to get empanadas or something?"  

Dad's face, when he found them the month before, sneaking back in by the fire escape, had been terrifying. The empanadas had been too good to pass up though.

"Nope."

"You don't wanna sneak out?" 

"No, bro."

That finally does the trick. Diego bats his hand away and pulls himself up, following Klaus as he disappears between the bookshelves.

"What's this for?" Diego grunts, his arms heavy.

The book makes a loud thud as Diego drops it on the desk, Klaus sets down the other one — gently — next to it. 

"We're going to look up our names! Mom said she'd explain, but Pogo was being all dramatic. So I figured we'd just do it ourselves."

Diego eyes him, with pursed lips, but says nothing. 

He claps his hands. "I'll begin. Let's see... Klaus? It means,” he sticks out his tongue in concentration. Trailing a finger over the page, he reads: “It means ‘the people’s victory’.”

“That’s cool." 

“Right?"  Klaus gushes.  "My name’s German. Do you think I’m from there?”

“Dunno. My name's from like Spanish or something, r-right? Doesn’t mean I’m from Spain.” Diego's got an uncomfortable expression like he always does whenever they talk about their births.

“Oh, right,” Klaus says dejectedly. The idea of having an excuse to learn German had sounded fun. Not that Dad would let him. Maybe if he talked about the ghosts. . . That's an idea.

Diego goes on, rambling a little. “And there are millions of countries that speak Spanish. I could be from, uh, y-you know, P-Peru or something.”

Klaus tries to imagine Diego riding a llama, that's Peruvian right? He cracks a grin, and Diego levels him with an unimpressed look. “What're you laughing at, huh?” 

It'd be pretty neat to have a llama as they’ve never been allowed to interact much with animals. Except for the dead ones all over the walls and Pogo, but he always seems iffy at being called an animal, so Klaus supposes it’s not polite or something. Who knows with him. 

Looking at Diego's impatient expression, Klaus flicks the pages backward. “Okay, geez. No need for impatience, no need, sir!  Letter 'd'… Oh, here. Means ‘supplanter’." 

Well, that's disappointing. Diego seems to think the same because he presses his lips tightly, shoulders slumped. He’s rolling the handle of the knife between his palms. That won't do.

It looks like Mom seems determined to make this a difficult as possible.

“But oh la la," Klaus says in the worst French accent he can imagine. "There’s more! So this says ‘possibly a shortened form…’ nah. Here. ‘In medieval records, blah blah, oh and it has been suggested that it, in fact, derives from Greek didache that means teaching!’”

Now Diego crouches down to look at the book better, blinking rapidly.

“Ha! See Di? Always knew you’d be a good teacher. With you showing me those moves earlier.” He mimics throwing a few punches to the air for good measure. 

A flat look. “You failed.”

“You said I’ll improve. Anyway, I think I’m from Germany." He opens the largest book, an Atlas and points to a picture. "It looks pretty.” 

Diego hums.

“Do you think Dad will let Mom teach me German too? Latin’s boring.”

“Last week you sa—said you wanted to learn French!”

“Duh. It’s pretty—”

“—puh—pretty lame, you mean.”

“Nuh huh. Anyways you are just saying that because you’d rather learn Spanish and Portuguese than Latin.”

They’d had the argument before. Diego insisted that of the countries he'd most likely been born in, most spoke Spanish. Five, ever smug, pointed out Brazil on the list and said they spoke Portuguese. Now Diego was determined to learn them both. And he'd had tried. Badly. 

Matilde crosses his mind and he quickly shakes the thought away. He might just have to listen carefully. No way he's getting ever talking to her again.

“Allison said French is the language of love. And well,” Klaus says, looking at Diego bashful. “It wasn’t my idea?"

A raised eyebrow.

"Six wanted to learn it first, but Dad won’t let him. He says it’s a waste of time. And that it would interfere with his private training. Which I don't get, how is French supposed to mess with Them? That's so stupid. So I figured maybe I could learn it and then teach it to him. And then he’d have to help me with that kick we did in training the other day.”

Diego opens his mouth, maybe to say 'You would be a terrible teacher', but then he shuts it. He huffs a breath, running his hands through his hair.

“Ben— Ben—ja—” He sighs, before saying pointedly: “Ben would help you either way.”

"I know he'd help, it's just I want to earn it okay?"

Diego's face softens. That's the thing with him, he can be a real pain one moment, and then the little boy who helped Klaus learn how to tie his shoes comes out. The hand on his shoulder is familiar and comforting. "You do not— don't need to earn it."

"Thanks." Klaus shrugs, trying to smile. “And well… I think French is dopest, but German is surely doper.”

“Puh-pretty sure that’s not how you use tha— that word.”

“How would you know? I, unlike you, my dearest brother, have read Allison’s magazines,” Klaus tells him, grinning inwardly at the health magazine that peeks under the rest of Diego's books.

“Y-yeah? Can't say I've ever read that crap.”

Quickly Klaus swoops in, snatching the magazine Diego's hidden underneath the big pile of books. His brother's eyes widen and he fails to reach for it falling face flat on the floor. 

"Aha!" Klaus crows, standing up on his tiptoes and holding the magazine up, waving it so that the pages make little smacking sounds. 

Diego raises himself up and glares. In between him reaching out to snatch the magazine and jumping because he's far shorter than Klaus, something he's always resented, he protests: "Four— Klaus, hey stop it. You're going to— going to break it!"

"Admit it! Admit it, you read these magazines more than Alli—"

Klaus' voice is cut off when his brother tackles him, sending them both sprawling to the ground. They wrestle for a while. Diego tickles him until he's red in the face. Klaus tries to pull his hair. "Admit— ugh, geroff."

"Give it here—"

"That's your foot, get it off!" Klaus shrieks as Diego's foot veers too close to his mouth. Then he shoves himself up and goes for the shoulder. 

"—she'll kill me! Ow, did you just bite—"

"Get it brothe—" 

Finally, Diego manages to get the magazine back, and they upright the lamp, which had fallen sideways during the fighting. Klaus sneaks a look at Diego's grinning face, his hair ruffled and looking way too pleased for someone who'd nearly lost a bite of his shoulder for a magazine dumb magazine. Typical, only something as dumb as a fight would cheer him up.

But well. He'd been too sulky, it had been time for some cheering up.

They spend a minute or so in silence. The both of them sitting on the floor, Klaus cradling one of his knees, his brother's head propped against the corner of the table. 

"I'll teach you," Diego says suddenly. His face is scrunched up as if he'd just said something embarrassing. He huffs. "I'll teach you," he repeats, setting his jaw.

"What?"

"If Benja— Ben, dammit we're gonna have to call him that— if he doesn't want to teach the move I'll do it. We have to try for Dad, right?"

Klaus reddens. Only Diego would figure him out. 

Then his brother reaches behind him to fiddle with something. 

"There's something—" He drifts off, clears his throat and starts again. "Just, just take it, alright?" Diego thrusts something forward: "Here."

Klaus looks down. The red paper is wrinkled all over and the place where Pogo glued the card from 'Dad' in is stained white, where Diego had probably ripped it out. He bits his lip, his brother had seemed upset in the afternoon, did he really. . .

He sneaks a glance at Diego. "You sure?" 

After a tight nod, he unwraps the paper hiding the gift and sets it aside.

There, gathered neatly, is an apron.

It's cream, a color Diego would never wear, the straps have little white ruffles along the sides and there's a red smudge— no, not a smudge, a whole lot of them. He brings it nearer to his face, the apron unfolding in his lap, and notices that there are no smudges at all, but little knives sewed in with red thread all along the border of the ruffles. And not only there, but they go down and down, until—

A familiar warmth spreads through his chest. He points to the bottom of the cloth.

"It's—" and closes his mouth with a click.

Diego shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning upwards and scoots to Klaus' side. With wobbly hands, he traces along with the careful stitching of his own name by Mom's steady hand. Diego Gabriel Hargreeves, it reads in red looping letters, a knife embroidered at its side.

Klaus can imagine her, unwrapping the gift in the dead of the night, and sewing all night long. Her fingers raw and oily, the delicate synthetic skin torn, but her smile truly happy and all hers for once. In his mind's eye, he sees her carefully putting out fires and rubbing backs and stitching a name that means something. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and notices Diego's gnawing his lip, dark eyes boring into him.  The little insecure gesture brings a smile at Klaus faces, who promptly says:

"Wait, how come you get a second name?"

Diego turns red. "Um."

"I knew it, Mama's always loved you more." He strikes a pose, smiling vaguely. It's meant to be a joke, and it is, but there's a pang in Klaus' chest. Mom's flawless face appears in his mind, like a finely crafted puppet. Only for serving, only for loving. Trapped in the house like they were, but never allowed to go out or have opinions. 

"Woah, hold—" Diego always been quick to jump at Mom's defense, even from Dad. "Hold on. Mom said we all got one. So don't be going around saying that bout her. Hey, seriou— seriously man."

He gives Diego a reluctant smile. "I know. Just joking around, you know lil old me." He goes for a wave of his hands and winks for good measure, Diego doesn't look very convinced, but he lets it go.

"Well," he says at last. "Just don't you go getting offended or something, alright?"

Klaus sighs gravely, and for dramatic effect presses a hand against his chest, as if offended: “I am offended.” He huffs, noise pointed to the air. Then drops the posture. “I’m not mad. Mom will just have to make it up to me.”

“. . . You do know you can just ask her your second name?” Diego asks slowly, brow furrowed. Klaus ignores him. 

“Do you think she’ll let me borrow her heels?”

“Maybe.”

And that's that. 

They set up the gift aside, and curl up together at the side of the table. Diego brings up his magazine to his face and, after a little encouragement from Klaus, begins reading it out loud. It's boring and who knows who thought eating raw food for more benefits was a good idea at all, but Diego seems pretty convinced so who knows. 

Suspiring, Klaus drops his head on his brother's shoulder, who takes it in stride and keeps going on. 

He's nearly forgotten the mess going on in his room when he hears it. The soft swishing of her skirt and the song accompanying it, he presses himself closer to Diego, burying his face in the comforting softness of the bathrobe. 

His brother pauses in the middle of reading something about the nutrients in salmon, which, gross, but Klaus shakes his head and tells him to go on. The low tone is soothing even if occasionally interrupted by stutters and curse words. 

Matilde’s form appears, shrouded by the blue veil that all ghosts seem to have. Her bare feet make no sound in the hardwood floors of the library as she glides along. Klaus watches her warily, seeing she’s dropped the bundle she’d made with her skirt, which left it dripping a trail of blood on the floor. 

She’s still singing but he can’t actually make out the words through the foggy gaze that is Diego’s reading.  Slowly she becomes a little clearer and he can see her reach out for him, a vacant expression on her face. When Klaus was little she’d trail her fingers above his hair as if tempted to smooth it down, whispering his name over and over. So he tilts his head and lets her pretend. 

Her fingers brush against air, it's colder than before and he shudders a little. 

The floor seems more inviting than before. Diego’s shoulder is warm, his breath ghosting the air white as he reads. He looks like the ghosts in movies, whole and distant, but so near and so nostalgic looking. 

And that’s how Klaus drifts off, curled on the wooden library floors, Matilde’s song blending with Diego’s soft-spoken reading.