Chapter Text
He could still feel the phantom feeling of the bullets piercing through his skin, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, the way the light had been pulling him deeper into its embrace, murmuring his name sweetly as if to welcome him home.
But it is never that easy, not if you are one of the members of the Umbrella Academy. Reginald Hargreeves surely made sure of that, his cold, accusatory voice echoing in his head as Five was blinking against the darkness threatening to swallow his vision, gasping pitifully on the ground.
Seconds, not decades.
The blue glow pulsed between his fingers and he pulled at the familiarity of the feeling, pulling until time and space bent under his touch, parting as he struggled to squeeze himself through just enough to jump and change the course of history.
The energy, familiar but somehow different, courses through his body and then he moves, for a few precious seconds existing within the time and yet outside of it.
And then he is on the other side of the barn, wide-eyed and gasping, his body moving on instinct when the Handler reached the door, his fingers curling around the gun with practiced ease as he knocked it out of her hands and pointed it at her.
Five closes his eyes, shaking the memory off as he takes the mug offered by Vanya and pulls it closer, inhaling the rich smell of coffee sloshing inside. Across the table, Vanya smiles at him softly when he murmurs a quiet thank you and takes a sip, ignoring the way it burns his tongue, happy to taste anything other than blood. The bone-deep exhaustion settles in his limbs and Five fights against the urge to rest his head against the table, his grip on the mug tightening until his knuckles turn white. There’s buzzing in his head, a headache throbbing in his temples and briefly, he wonders when was the last time he slept. He suspects that he’s been going on nothing but caffeine and adrenaline for one day too many.
“Are you alright?” Vanya asks quietly, slipping into the seat across from him, also with a mug clutched in her hands. Five lets his eyes sweep over her figure, noting the tension still visible in the hunch of her shoulders and the redness of her eyes indicating that she’s been crying not so long ago, most likely shortly after Sissy and Harlan’s departure. She looked a little paler than usual but otherwise appeared to be unharmed.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?” he deflects easily.
Vanya’s eyes drop to the table. “I’m okay,” she responds a little too quickly. “Or at least I think I am going to be. It’s just, you know… It’s a lot.”
Five nods slowly, well-known feeling of guilt turning into a tight knot in his stomach as her words from before ring in his ears, the look of genuine anger in her eyes when she reminded him that it was his fault that they were stuck here in the first place, the way her power swirled around him threateningly, ready to burst out of her small frame and destroy everything on its way.
“It’ll get better,” he says eventually, hoping it sounds at least somewhat reassuring, words awkward on his lips.
He’s never been good at offering comfort, not even when he was a child, relying on his other siblings during the missions gone wrong, missions during which they couldn’t keep the civilians safe. It was usually either Allison or Diego -- or Klaus, on rare situations when it was a child that needed comforting -- who would crouch next to the victims, all soft words and warm smiles, promising that everything will be okay, even if they knew that there was little to be done, even if it was already too late and all they could do was offer a hand to hold and some sweet reassurances, empty promises.
And then the apocalypse happened and… Well, there wasn’t really anyone who needed to be comforted in the apocalypse, was there?
The silence that settles between them isn’t an uncomfortable one and it reminds him of the times when they would simply sit in each other’s presence on those rare days when their father had some business to attend and left them to focus on their studies alone, Vanya humming quietly as she was finishing her homework at the table and Five reading, curled in one of the big armchairs, enjoying her company and ready to offer help if she ran into any kind of problem with her homework. Sometimes, Ben would join them and Vanya would play her violin, the sound carrying through the corridors of the academy and they would pretend they to be a normal family, the melodies that Vanya played stuck in Five's head even so many years later, calming.
His chest swells with fondness at the memory and he desperately tries not to think about all the times the same memory kept him sane as the ash was swirling in the air around him. For too many years that deep-rooted sense of longing, the hope that one day they would sit like that again was the only thing that kept him going.
He frowns, staring at the mug in his hands.
He’s been living this fantasy for so long, months and years eventually blending into decades, and now that it’s within his reach it feels nothing like he expected it to feel, a pang of what almost feels like disappointment in his chest. He was gone for so long. Ben is no longer here and he messed things up so, so much, kept messing things up since the moment he came back. First failing to prevent the apocalypse, then strangling his siblings scattered across the years, agreeing to act like the Handler's faithful little assassin, letting Lila go... He inhales sharply, his eyes fluttering closed for a second as he tries to compose himself, fighting against the wave of nausea that crashes into him unexpectedly, two long weeks of constant battles and stress ready to take its toll on this new and yet old body of his, so frail and bony it's disgusting.
“Five?” Vanya’s concerned voice reaches his ears and he can feel her hovering nearby. “Is everything okay?”
He forces his eyes open and feels his lips stretch in a smile that feels a little too strained around the edges to be genuine. He hopes that after over seventeen Vanya can’t tell the difference.
“Of course,” he says, forcing a note of nonchalance into his voice. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
He doesn’t wait for her to respond and pushes his chair back, standing up abruptly and blinking out of the kitchen before she could even open her mouth.
-
He finds Diego inside the barn, sitting on a bale of hay, playing with one of his knives absent-mindedly, turning and twisting them with adept ease in his fingers. He doesn’t spare even a single glance in Five’s direction when he warps in, unfazed. He's fixed staring at the spot on the ground with unseeing eyes, deep in thought.
Five clears his throat to catch his attention. Diego doesn't look up, but his hands still.
“We’re leaving soon. The rest is saying their goodbyes and resting before we go. Be ready to leave,” he informs him curtly and then moves to leave.
“Wait, Five,” Diego calls out and there’s this kind of urgency in his voice that makes Five turn, facing him. “I wanted to ask you something.”
Five raises an eyebrow questioningly. “Shoot.”
Diego worked his jaw for a moment as if battling with himself, looking for the right words or debating whether asking his question was a good idea in the first place.
Five rolled his eyes. “Diego, I don’t have all day.”
“Do you think Lila is gonna track us?” Diego blurts out, finally lifting his head and locking his eyes with Five's.
Five freezes, body tensing. “Does it matter?”
Diego's gaze hardens. “To me, yes.”
Five pushes his hands into the pockets, annoyed, and then stifles a wince when the movement aggravates his old shrapnel wound and his scattered with bruises body flares with pain in protest.
The truth is, Lila is the last thing he wants to think about.
So many conflicting emotions -- suspicion, concern, guilt -- coil at the pit of his stomach when he thinks back about their last encounter, but he doesn’t have time to inspect or dignify any of them with any sort of deeper thought or consideration. Until he gets all of them back to the Academy, back to their timeline, nothing else matters. He's been too close too many times, only to watch it burn and crash, he's not about to let it happen again, not after everything they went through and when it's practically in his grasp.
“I don’t know. Probably?” Five shrugs, lowering his gaze and frowning. “I don’t think she’s the type of person to just give up. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still out for my head. After all, I killed her parents,” he bares his teeth in a sharp smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Diego winces and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, that…”
Five sighs, sympathetic but impatient, trying to keep himself from snapping at Diego in his clearly vulnerable state, as always worrying about the wrong thing.
“Look, Diego. We’ll worry about Lila later, okay? Who knows where she is and what kind of trouble she’s up to. The Handler’s gone now and Lila will probably find us at some point. Her whereabouts are irrelevant right now, we'll worry about her once we make sure that both of the apocalypses have been averted. We have to go back to 2019. Nothing is more important than that, surely even an idiot like you understand that. We messed up the timeline enough already,” he finishes with emphasis, pinning Diego with a cold, penetrating stare, as if to make sure that he understands.
Diego almost looks like he’s about to protest but then he seems to think better of it and gives him a short, curt nod.
Five's shoulders drop in relief, not in the mood to fight him over something like that, and he releases a small sigh, eager to drop this argument. “Great. See you soon.”
He disappears with a soft whoosh, leaving Diego to his brooding.
-
He finds Klaus outside, leaning against the wall, a cigarette sticking out from his mouth, tendrils of silvery smoke curling around his face with every exhale.
"Where did you even find that?" asks Five, frowning at the half-empty pack of cigarettes in his hand.
"Oh, this?" Klaus cocks his head to the side, smiling around the cigarette in his mouth. "Sweet little Vanya gave it to me."
"Since when does Vanya smoke?"
Klaus shrugs, swaying in place, as if dancing to the song only he can hear, eyes fluttering closed
Five shakes his head. "Nevermind. We leave in thirty minutes, so don't move anywhere. If you won't be here we're leaving without you."
"Aye aye, captain," Klaus agrees with a small salute, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Five narrows his eyes at him. "I'm serious, Klaus."
"Me too, brother of mine. Totally super duper serious, I swear," Klaus presses a hand to his heart, batting his eyelashes in a way that doesn’t look even remotely innocent.
Five frowns at him for a little longer, looking at him as if trying to determine whether he’s lying or not, but eventually relents, knowing that he has no time for this.
He swears that getting his siblings in one place seems to border on impossibility and he doesn't trust them enough to believe that they will actually listen, once in their life.
It's like herding a bunch of wayward cats, he thinks tiredly and warps back into the house with one last look in Klaus's direction, catching him smiling at him innocently and raising his hand, flashing him the ‘goodbye’ inscribed in black ink on his palm before blue light envelops his body and Five appears in the living room of Sissy’s house, stumbling slightly when his whole body bursts with pain.
He groans, reaching out to stabilize himself against the nearest wall, gasping as he struggles to force the precious oxygen into his lungs and -- for a few horrifying seconds -- failing miserably until his body seems to remember how to do it.
No more jumping, he thinks dizzily, swallowing the bile in his mouth and swaying slightly in place, resting his head against the wall, the pleasant coolness of the bare bricks offering a brief moment of relief as he wills his heart to calm down. He blinks, once, twice, pushing the darkness lurking at the edges of his vision away.
He doesn’t have time for this.
“Five?” Allison’s voice rings close and he curses under his breath, pushing himself away from the wall, straightening and schooling his grimace into something less pained, willing the muscles of his face into a neutral expression and hoping it’ll be enough to fool the others long enough for them to go back home. He’ll worry about his traitorous body once the threat of inevitable doom is averted.
Moments later, Allison rounds the corner, looking concerned. “Are you alright? Is everything okay?”
“Just peachy,” Five brushes past her, curling his trembling hands into fists and pushing them into his pockets. “Where is Luther?”
Allison blinks, following after him deeper into the house. There’s suspicion present in the dip of her brows, like he’s suspecting that he’s leaving something out but unsure how to bring up the topic. “He’s in the kitchen with Vanya. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
He doesn’t respond, heading in the direction of the kitchen instead, stepping over the pile of rubble and pushing the door that’s barely hanging in its hinges, broken by the force of multiple bullets and now riddled with holes. He feels a little sick, seeing the full excess of the harm, acutely aware how lucky they were now that the danger is gone. the fact that neither of them died is nothing short of a miracle.
But then again, it isn’t entirely true, is it?
After all, they did die. It just didn’t happen to be as permanent as it usually is.
The black briefcase rests innocently on the table when he enters the kitchen, Luther and Vanya talking in hushed voices near it. It’s been a while since he last saw Vanya this relaxed -- or maybe it’s the first time, ever? -- and he has to admit that it’s a nice change, the lines of her forehead smooth where they used to be pulled tightly in a slight frown that used to be indefinitely fixed on her face, no matter how hard he tried his best to cheer her up.
“Have you seen Diego?” Vanya asks, looking up from her conversation with Luther as he gets closer.
“Outside. You can go get him, we’re leaving soon,” Five said distractedly, waving vaguely in the direction of the door, not tearing his eyes away from the briefcase.
She called him her sole confidant in her book, a lifetime ago, a fact that used to send a pleasant, warm feeling through his veins, a rare sense of pride, always immediately squashed, followed by a great surge of guilt.
Five’s used to guilt by now, having been defined by this feeling for so long, his father’s cold I told you so ringing in his head at all times, distressingly correct and unforgiving.
Maybe that’s what makes it so hard to swallow, the truth that he can’t argue with, defeated by his own pragmatism. The Handler was correct about that after all.
His hands are shaking, he notes absently, reaching for the briefcase and inspecting it, running his fingers along the edges, making sure that it'll take them home safely, putting the coordinates with great care, well aware of how disastrous in consequences would it be if he messed it all up again. Third time’s a charm, he thinks bitterly, setting the briefcase down, now successfully programmed and ready for use.
Five can feel a little bit of tension that’s been settled in his shoulders dissipate, a small smile tugging at his lips. He knows it’s too early to celebrate and the truth is that he won’t be able to relax in relief fully until they are where they should be, but he also can’t help it but feel relieved, pleased to know that for the first time in over forty-five years he’ll be able to breathe.
He gathers them outside, sparing one last look at the house, feeling a pang of guilt course through his veins. What once must have been a nice rural house, hidden between the fields and woods stands here now, reduced to its foundations and full of holes. It’s a sad sight that reminds him of the apocalypse a little too much, abandoned and collapsed buildings looming over him, devoid of life and hauntingly empty, the fire destroying everything on its way.
He spent various nights hiding in buildings like these, curled with his back against the walls as he struggled to fall asleep, nightmares after nightmares ruining his hopes for a good night’s sleep and leaving him even more vulnerable than he already was. The images of his dead siblings were imprinted underneath his eyelids, always there, lurking just at the edge of his vision and ready to plague his dreams. There was no escaping them and so after a while he stopped trying, letting the visions of what could have happened and how they must have felt in those final moments torment him until he would pass out from pure exhaustion, grateful for the comforting embrace of darkness.
His hold on the briefcase tightens and Five inhales deeply, a strong sense of relief crashing into him all at once he realizes they are barely seconds away from being home, safe in their own timeline, almost overwhelming.
So close. Almost there.
He gets them all in a circle, pushing the pestering memory of the last time they did it at the very back of his mind, not letting it distract him. He knws he screwed up. He hopes that once they’re home it’ll no longer matter.
With one last steadying breath, Five opens the briefcase and screws his eyes shut.
...
Something’s wrong.
By the time he realizes that it’s already too late to do anything about it other than let it happen, the blinding light emitting from the briefcase swallowing him and his family, the rush of time reaching forward and pulling them through the decades at dizzying speed.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, it’s over, and Five can feel the embrace of time and space releasing him from its hold, knocking the air out of his lungs in its rush.
Something’s wrong, he thinks, the realization dawning on him slowly. He can feel his mouth go dry and his breath hitching.
He forces his eyes open, not wanting to delay the inevitable, knowing what’s awaiting him long before his eyes can catch up.
All he sees is ash.
Ash before his eyes, ash itching in his nose, ash finding its way into his ears and clinging to his clothes and skin, a familiar burning feeling crawling into his throat, leaving him all choked up in a way that he had no choice but to get used to the last time he was trapped in the wasteland.
He's on the ground, he realizes dazedly, unsure how he got there. It's hard and uncomfortable against his back, and yet so strangely recognizable, the vast expanse of the oh-so-familiar apocalypse spreading before his eyes once they adjust just enough to focus, his siblings gone and the world still burning around him.
Five opens his mouth but all he can manage is a broken sob.