Work Text:
From the moment Five saw that diner, the one source of sound in the endless silence devouring the subway system, he knew what the Five across from him was going to say.
Booth Five stares him down, the anger directed at the other Five behind the counter fading into an inexplicable calm.
Resigned, even.
Disgust curdles in Five's stomach, sharp and bitter.
How long did this version of him sit here for that emotion to look so natural on his face?
"We cause the apocalypse?" Five echoes, twisting the resignation in Booth Five's voice to something darker and more bitter. "We, as in our family or we as in all of us here?"
A flicker of a grin pulls at Booth Five's lips, flat and mirthless. "That is the question."
Five leans forward around the sandwich he was involuntarily given, glancing at the pictures lining the walls briefly. He catches sight of his own desperate face staring back at him at the face of Viktor bringing down the moon on all of them. "You know the answer."
Booth Five shrugs his shoulders, the movement nonchalant and languid. "We've always known."
That Five is right, as much as it pains Five to admit. He's known from the moment he landed in the apocalypse over four decades ago, even if the person he was all those years ago was far too young to name the emotion festering in his chest.
It was a sickness, and the only cure was clinging to an unwavering desperation of saving his family.
Even now, he can still feel ash cling to his skin, no matter how many times he rubs it raw.
And the chill of his siblings' bodies as he dug them out of the rubble.
"How many times?" Five gestures at the pictures on the wall. "This can't be all of them. There are many more stops out there."
Even in the years that it took Five to find this place, he didn't even travel through half of them.
"147,000 times," The Five behind him says, glancing up from his newspaper. "Approximately, I rounded for convenience's sake."
"And we cause them all?"
Booth Five gives Five a patronizing look, a mix of pity and condescending. "Every single one."
"And you choose to just sit here?" That flicker of cold anger burns in Five's chest, growing from the first spark that ignited when he saw the multitudes of himself filling the seats. "All of you?"
"If you were smart, you would choose this too." The snark in Booth Five's voice is familiar in a way that hurts, like the muddled reflect in a cracked mirror.
"To sit here and waste away while our siblings are dying?"
Booth Five picks up the shitty cup of coffee and takes a pointed sip. "Your siblings."
Something heavy and sick settles in Five's stomach, the same sinking feeling that destroyed him when he first saw his family dead in the rubble at the end of the world. "All of your timelines are gone."
"I'll give you this, not all the Fives pick up on that." Booth Five holds the coffee cup in between his hands, something saccharine in his smile. "If we'd stayed, we'd be dead."
"What about your siblings? Your family?" Five thinks of all the times he was too late, of how his family somehow bound together for the end even if he wasn't there. Of all the timelines where they died scattered across the planet. "You let them die alone?"
"Don't you get tired?" The edge in Booth Five's expression seeps away, revealing the same long-suffering weariness that Five catches in his own eyes. "Of all the fighting—the surviving?"
"Of course." Five has been tired of it his entire life—when he had to scrap himself out of the hellhole he called home for most of his life, when he had to fight his way through the Commission. "But I'm not done until they're safe."
Booth Five shakes his head slowly. "You're not the first to say that."
"How many times have I left?"
"There's about 30 of us here." Booth Five gestures to the rest of the diner with a jerk of his head. "You can do the math."
Five stands and something sad seeps into Booth Five's expression. "I'm not going to stay here."
"That is unfortunate." Booth Five watches him with the same resignation from before, the one that makes Five want to claw it off his face. "You're one of the Fives that I actually liked."
"Then get a better selling pitch." Five gives him a sharp, shit-eating grin, before grabbing the coffee and downing it in one go.
It's disgusting, but the energy boost is well needed.
Five turns on his heel and leaves the diner, swiping his jacket on the way out.
No one tries to stop him.
Like always, the train waits for him at the station. He climbs into the car and glances down towards the front of the train.
The air hums with the familiar taste of ozone, sharp and aseptic.
There is a part of him that always felt at home on this train, no matter how much he shoved that feeling into the corner of his mind.
He crosses the length of the car, his steps echoing in the clinical silence. Each door he finds is unlocked, sliding open with ease when he tugs on the handle.
Even as the train starts to move, he slips in between the cars without any issues.
At the end of the first car, an elaborate control panel dwarfed by the large, clear windows above it greets him. Just like everything else in this station, the labels are written in a language that he doesn't understand and the controls look nothing like a traditional control panel would look.
But when he rests his hands on the panel, the metal ice cold against his skin, he knows what he needs to do.
The train hums with the same energy that courses through his veins. The understanding of space and time is woven into his very being, not even the Marigold being torn away could take that from him.
This train, spun into existence by the mistakes made by every single iteration of himself, is as much a part of him as his own abilities are.
Five closes his eyes and calls out to the train.
And, in the same way that space bends to his will, the train calls back.
— —
Booth Five dips his hand into his jacket and pulls out a small flask. He twists off the top and pours some of it into the half-filled coffee cup.
The diner is silent, like it always is when the most recent Five leaves.
Booth Five doesn't necessarily regret this outcome, it's hard to when this is far from the first time he's had this conversation, but he liked the look in this Five's eyes.
It wasn't desperate like most of the Fives that run back to their apocalypses are.
Maybe this Five could do what all of them failed to do.
Booth Five slips the flask back into his jacket and takes a sip of his coffee, the sharp taste of alcohol pleasant across his tongue.
He knows better than to think like that.
It's been far too many years of the same thing over and over again for him to expect anything different.
This Five will fail, just like all of the ones before him.
The only question is whether or not he'll abandon his family and return here.
It's rare, but not impossible.
Booth Five is here after all.
Newspaper Five closes his newspaper and drops it on the table before taking the spot across from Booth Five that was just vacated. "Feeling mean today?"
Booth Five can't believe that Newspaper Five has been here longer than him, not with the stupid questions he asks. "He kept on asking questions."
"They always ask questions."
Booth Five shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. "I knew he was going to be a Savior from the beginning, so what's the point of playing nice?"
"Why bother, then?" Newspaper Five picks up the abandoned sandwich and takes a bite out of it.
"I only got you lot to talk to, give me a break." Booth Five leans back against his seat, the cheap vinyl cushions creaking beneath his weight. "It's something new—even if he ends up leaving."
Newspaper Five concedes with a nod, taking the sandwich and moving back to his seat.
Booth Five looks over at the wall of photos, glancing over each devastating scene.
His gaze lingers on his own apocalypse, his small figure in the center almost swallowed by the flames roaring around him.
The photo right next to his apocalypse flickers before snapping out of existence.
Booth Five picks up his drink and sips at it.
Maybe, just maybe, this Savior Five knew something that they didn't.