Umbrella Academy fic: Hunger Pains (3/4)
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
-o-
There’s no call from the lawyer, no call from Patrick, but one day, she makes French toast and serves it hot and warm with syrup to Five as she makes himself coffee in the kitchen and he’s had enough.
He looks at the plate, the steaming food, and his jaw tightens.
He looks up at Allison, the look hardening to anger in his eyes.
“You know what?” he says, picking up the plate. He stomps to the trash, and takes off the lid and throws the whole thing, plate, fork and all, into the trash. “That’s it. That’s enough.”
She stares at him, stunned. This is what she’s been working for, what she’s been counting on. Now that it’s happening, however, she realizes that she’s woefully unprepared. All these ideas of breaking Five, and it turns out Luther’s right. She doesn’t have a clue about how to actuall fix him. There’s no step by step, court ordered process. There’s no custody agreement, hammered out by lawyers.
There’s just Five.
An angry, skinny 58 year old in a 13 year old body.
Fuming over his lack of control.
She wants to tell him that she knows the feeling, but he doesn’t seem like he wants to listen.
“It’s enough,” he says again, letting the words drip with venom. “All your cooking, all your food, all your serving it on fancy little plates, day after day after day. It’s enough.”
She stares at him, the griddle still hot while another batch of French toast cooks. She’s hold a spatula. “But you haven’t eaten yet.”
“So?” he asks. “So what?”
“So,” she says, pausing to flip the pieces of egg-soaked bread. “That’s the point, isn’t it? That you eat?”
“I thought the point was for me to develop a healthy relationship with food,” he seethes.
“Well, yeah,” she says. “You know, by eating. Real meals. Before you get sick or pass out or kill yourself -- or worse, one of us.”
He shakes his head, vehement as he points at the trash. “It’s food! You can’t have a relationship with it!”
She scoffs. “Well, you certainly don’t.”
He throws his hands up. “And so what if I do or don’t!” he explodes, the pent up frustration the the week-long stand off proving to be too much for him. “It’s just food! And you know what? I’m not your responsibility!”
He jabs a finger at her in accusation, his face twisted up vindictively. She knows then that she’s pushed the right buttons. She’s played this right, played it to damn near perfect. She wanted him to break, and here he is, spitting pieces of himself at her like he’s got nothing left to lose.
Her stand, then, matters. And she’s worked hard to get to this point, and she finds that she’s at a precipice she doesn’t quite understand. For the first time, she’s not sure if she actually wants to jump but it appears as if there’s no other option. “But you are,” she says, and her accusation breaks on emotion, something pleading in her tone for him to understand. That yes, this is a war, but it’s not over the things he thinks it is.
He doesn’t get it, though. He shakes his head, more adamant than ever. “Why? Because you think I’m 13?”
He’s betraying himself a bit, the bitter cut in his voice suggesting his own frustration and self loathing -- things that have nothing to do with Allison and very little to do with food. Except that they are things he can’t control -- his diet, apparently -- is something he still thinks is his domain.
And for some reason, it makes her bristle. It makes her step back; it makes her breath catch.. Because for all that it exposes his own pain, it cuts her deeper than probably intended. It hurts because she cares about him, she cares about him so damn much, and he doesn’t see it. Standing there, he sees his own failures, his own weaknesses, his own struggle for volition.
He still thinks this actually is about food.
He doesn’t get it.
Smart as he is, capable as he is, experienced as he is -- he doesn’t have a damn clue. He doesn’t understand that he’s lucky that he has a choice. He doesn’t understand that he’s lucky that he gets to choose. He doesn’t understand how utterly stupid he is -- pointlessly, senselssly stupid he is -- for squandering that choice, willfully, spitefully, day after day. That he has the chance for relationship, it’s entirely within his control, and he’ll reject it just to prove that he can.
Her voice is tighter now; her eyes burning. “Because we’re family, you asshole, and I’m worried about you,” she says. “That’s why.”
It’s more emotional than he’s expecting; more emotional than he is probably equipped to deal with. This is still a war, after all. And Five always fights to win.
That’s what she tells herself later, when she’s calm and rational. That’s how she justifies loving her brother despite the words that come out of his mouth next.
“Well, you should worry about the family that needs you. You should worry about Claire. You remember, right, your daughter?” he asks, and the smile that tugs at his lips is dark and angry. His eyes glint as he goes for the kill. “Have you gotten visitation yet? Because that’s the relationship you should care about right now. Much longer, and she’s not even going to recognize you.”
Later, she can rationalize it. Later, she can attribute it all to the heat of the moment and Five’s emotional incapacity. Later, she can understand it, sympathize with him even. Later, she knows. Later, when she’s calm, when she’s collected. Later, when her emotions are in check.
Later, when she can cope.
Later it’s good, it is.
Unfortunately, later is not now.
Right now, right here, in this moment, there’s no later. There’s no reflection. There’s no mature understanding. There’s no abstract analysis and clinical assessment. Right here, right now, there’s just pain.
Because his words -- as brash as they are, as much as Five doesn’t mean them -- hurt. And not just a little. This isn’t a casual barb; this isn’t sibling banter. This can’t be chuckled away or handled with a quirky roll of the eyes.
No, this hurts. It hits at the wound deep inside her, the one that has been festering for days, for weeks. It doesn’t just find her weakness. It doesn’t even exploit her weakness. It takes her weakness and goes for the kill. It strikes at her to her very core, to her part of herself she holds most true. It cuts her down, strips her away, and reveals who Allison Hargreeves is, who she really is. It reveals, in utter rawness, the woman, the mother, the person, she wants to be.
It reveals, to her horror, the person she doesn’t know if she can be.
For that person, later is too abstract of a concept. Later is a court date that is never set. Later is a phone call that Patrick never lets happen. Later is a hug from her daughter that is months in the making.
Later, mostly, is not now.
Her jaw is tight; her eyes are burning so bad that she can barely see anything other than the smug look on his small, square jaw. “You don’t have to be a bastard, Five.”
There’s no remorse on his face, though she wonders if she’s imagining the faintest flicker of it in his eyes. He’s made his choice, though, as much as she’s made hers. They’re standing their ground now. They’re drawing their lines in the sand. No matter what. “And you don’t have to be willfully stupid,” he says. “I’m fine, Allison. Trust me.”
His voice has softened just a little, the edge dulling from vitriol to imploration. It’s sentimental in effect, but that just makes it worse. He wants her to trust him. He’s asking that of her. After all of this, everything he’s said, he wants her trust.
She knows they’re family. She knows she loves him and that he loves her, each in their own ways. But love is its own thing, its own unique thing. Love and trust work best when they go hand in hand, but it’s never that simple.
What Five has said here.
The place he’s attacked her.
It has nothing to do with love or trust.
Of course, this is evidence that she has broken Five. She’s pushed his buttons and finally elicited a response she needed to work through this issue. The problem is that, in the process, he’s broken her as well. And she’s not sure there’s enough of her here, right now, to give back to him. She can’t put him together while the pieces of herself are still falling apart.
She broke his patience, it seems.
But Five broke her will.
And Allison will give anything for a worthwhile cause -- she will -- but for someone who doesn’t want it? For someone who will throw it back at her spitefully? All her time, all her effort -- it’s wasted here. It’s empty; pointless. It’s broken dishes and food in the trash. Allison has her limits, in the end. She always has. She can’t break for Claire’s sake, but she will break for Five’s. That’s the problem, when you get right down to it. Allison only has so much to give, and Five’s asking for all of it with his tantrums and his denials and his insults. If she gives it all to Five, gives up everything inside of her, she’ll have nothing left for Claire.
In her own way, Allison is starving herself just as much as Five is.
The difference is that she’s smart enough to see it.
“Fine, you know what?” she says, making a show of unplugging the skillet and throwing her hands up in the air. “You win, Five. You win.”
She stalks across the room toward him and stares him down. He’s a tough piece of shit, though; he doesn’t flinch. Still, she can see the flicker of doubt sparking behind his eyes.
She could pull back now; she could try to salvage this, but she’s done. She’s crossed the point of no return, and Patrick can have his stupid live in girlfiend, the lawyer can burn through all her cash, the judge can sit on her case for months on end and Five can die of malnutrition for all she cares. If she’s going to pick and choose, she’s going to end up with Claire, hands down, no matter what.
All the rest -- everyone else in her life -- can be collateral damage.
“You win,” she says again, and it’s her voice that’s vindictive now. There are some hills she’ll die on, but she has found out that this isn’t one of them. “Don’t have a relationship with food. Don’t have any relationship at all. You win.”
She doesn’t wait for a reaction, doesn’t humor a response. She storms out of the kitchen, leaving Five, his uneaten breakfast, and the whole damn plan to rot.
-o-
The thing about doing nothing is that -- well, it’s doing nothing. It’s really, really easy. She’s been working her ass off the last couple weeks, tracking Five’s habits, trying to trick him into eating. She’s been plotting and planning and worrying and cooking.
Now, just like that, she doesn’t have to do anything.
She doesn’t pay attention to when Five gets up. She doesn’t monitor his hobbies. She doesn’t double check on him to make sure he’s eaten, and she sure as hell isn’t wasting her time making him food he doesn’t want to eat.
It’s strangely liberating, having her life back again. There’s time to rest; there’s time to read a book. She starts watching a soap opera for shits and giggles. She takes Klaus to his AA meetings. She spars with Diego and kicks his ass. She discusses poetry with Ben. She lets Luther take her on a date, a proper date.
And Vanya -- well, there’s no shortage of things to do with Vanya. They listen to music. Hell, they go to concerts. Vanya takes her to a string quartet, and Allison finds a local bar with live shows on Friday nights. They do shots and eat pastries and laugh over dinner like actual sisters should.
Every time she catches sight of Five, skulking in the background, she makes a point to look the other way. When she picks up food, she never brings any for him. One day, she makes herself three peanut butter sandwiches and leaves the empty jar on the counter just because she can.
Is she being petty? Yes, yes she is. But so what? Why shouldn’t she be petty? Five’s right; he’s the one who said it. He’s not her responsibility. If he thinks he’s fine, then that’s for him to figure out. As long as he can live his life and do his part in the team, then Allison hasn’t got any business giving a shit at all.
Besides, she’s done being nice to boys who think they are too smart, too clever and too smug for her. She’s Allison Hargreeves. She’s an award winning actress and a millionaire in her own right. She owns a damn production company. She won’t her failed relationship with Patrick ruin her any more than she’ll let a strained relationship with her brother bring her down. She’s got better things to do, starting with Claire and ending with herself.
If this is losing, then she decides it’s probably not so bad.
-o-
There are times, however, when she’s less sure. There are times when she sees him loitering behind her, the look of apology on his face. There are times when he seems to hover outside the kitchen, waiting to see if she’ll come.
She’s angry, but she’s not a bitch. She makes eye contact and holds it long enough to give him a chance.
Under pressure, though, Five folds. He ducks his eyes and says nothing.
That’s his choice, however. He has to live with it.
Just like Allison has to live with hers.
-o-
The problem is still Claire. The problem has always been Claire. Patrick is screening her calls now, and when he leaves voice messages at 3 AM, he’s always vague.
Claire wants to see you really bad, she does.
But he always ends the same.
I just don’t know if I can trust you yet.
That’s probably why Five’s request, his demand for trust is so outrageous to her. All her life, Allison has played fast and loose with trust. She’s taken it so flippantly when it wasn’t earned. That’s no way to live, and she knows that now.
Some people, the Hargreeves in particular, may just have to learn that lesson the hard way.
-o-
Another week, and Five does break.
He’s waiting downstairs in the morning, and there’s not a drop of coffee in sight. He’s dressed, hands in his pockets, and he’s staring at the door until she comes through.
“Hi,” she says awkwardly, not sure what to do with the sudden intensity of his scrutiny. She slinks toward the fridge. “Do you need something?”
“Yes,” he says. “I need breakfast.”
Her heart skips a beat, but she does what she can not to show it. “Okay,” she says slowly, opening the door to the fridge and taking out the jug of juice. “So, eat something.”
Five looks perturbed, like she’s putting him out. “I thought we could eat breakfast. Together.”
The words are sensible and Allison understands them in theory. The practical application is a little harder to grasp. “I don’t get it.”
He huffs, growing visibly frustrated. “I thought we could go out, eat some breakfast. You drive, I pay. Yadda, yadda, yadda.”
That’s surreal, that’s what it is. One week ago, he’s telling her to leave him alone. One week later, he’s making every concession she’s ever asked for. He’s surrendering; that’s what he’s doing.
The problem is that the terms are all wrong.
Allison can’t win battles in life. That’s not what a relationship is, is it? A relationship is growth, it’s change, it’s vulnerability. It’s the ability to say you’re wrong.
“So you admit it, then?” Allison asks, arching one of her eyebrows keenly. “You admit that you have a problem with food?”
Five is almost flummoxed now, a red rising up his cheeks. “No, of course not,” he says. He makes an uncomfortable gesture in her direction. “I just know I hurt your feelings. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Ah,” Allison says, reaching for a glass and pouring some juice into it. “So this is a pity breakfast.”
“It’s breakfast, that’s all,” Five replies curtly.
“No,” Allison says, screwing the lid back on the jug. “It’s you wanting to apologize for being an asshole.”
“Okay, yes,” Five says, shrugging his shoulders. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I’m not discouraging it,” Allison says, putting the juice away.
Five seems to brightened. “Good. So we’ll go?”
Allison picks up the glass and shakes her head. “No.”
His face darkens just that fast again. “What do you mean no? This is what you wanted.”
“No, it’s not,” she says. “I mean, I’m not against a little sibling bonding, and I do want a relationship with you, Five. But that relationship -- as much as you’ve tried to screw it up -- has never been in doubt. The relationship that I’m worried about is the one you have--”
He rolls his eyes. “--with food, I know.”
“With yourself,” she corrects him finally. She scoffs at his blindness. “You can’t even see what you’re doing to yourself, and you’re not willing to acknowledge why. We’re all doing what we need to do to fix our lives -- but you? You’re going around like the world is still ending, and it’s not. You need to change, and you don’t want to, so I told you. You win, Five. Don’t change. You win.”
The emotions play across his face, settling into tense lines around his mouth. “I’m not trying to win,” he says. “The food isn’t that big of deal. I’m serious. But I don’t want our relationship to be strained, so I’ll go out--”
She waves a hand at him dismissively. “The apology is noted, it really is,” she says. “But I’ll take a raincheck on the breakfast until you’re actually hungry.”
End scene, cue the lights, and give Allison the damn Oscar now, thank you very much.
If only being right actually got you anywhere in life.
-o-
The irony is that Allison’s own appetite has been dwindling. All this talk of food, and Allison hasn’t got the stomach for it. She goes out to eat with her siblings, she takes part in family meals, but none of it tastes right, and she feels it roiling in her gut afterward.
Because the food is nice, and being with her siblings is great, and it’s even good to be back on speaking terms with Five.
But Claire.
She doesn’t just miss Claire.
She craves her daughter. The loss of that relationship, the want of it -- makes her nearly physically ill. It’s crippling, and she feels herself shriveling up from the loss of sustenance.
Desperate, she breaks down and calls her lawyer that night. To her surprise, he answers.
“Ms. Hargreeves! Good to hear from you!”
Allison blinks, surprised. “Why?” she asks, and her chest clenches as her stomach turns. “Is there news? Did you hear something?”
“No, nothing official or anything like that,” the lawyer backtracks with a self deprecating chuckle. “But I did a little asking around, and I found out that your case is on the docket for Judge Denner. Now, I know Denner. She’s young, she’s got kids. She’s a soft touch for mothers.”
Allison shakes her head, not sure she follows. “So, when is she going to look at the case?”
“Well, Denner’s slow, is the thing. Thorough, you could say,” the lawyer explains. “I asked around, and she’s been sitting on a bunch of cases. I’ve got a friend who has a client who’s been shuffled on Denner’s desk for six months.”
“Months?” Allison asks, breath catching in her throat. “But I’ve been done with my therapy for months now. I’ve done everything they’ve asked from me. I can’t give up six more months of my daughter’s life.”
“There’s no choice, I’m afraid,” the lawyer says. “It’s going to be soon.”
“Six months isn’t soon,” Allison points out.
“If there was anything I could do about it, I would, I promise you. There’s just nothing, I’m afraid. It’s out of your hands.”
She ends the call with numb fingers and doesn’t bother saying goodbye.
If Five kills himself, it’ll be his choice.
If Allison ends up dead, there’ll be nothing she can do about it.
She hates him a little for it.
In the end, as she curls up on top of the covers still in her clothes, she still hates herself more.
-o-
Five is no longer an apt distraction, but she lives in a house with her superpowered siblings. There is always a distraction. And the reimplementation of the Umbrella Academy is just the kind of distraction she needs.
It’s based on family. It’s a force used to help people in need. And she gets to beat the shit out of people in the process.
It’s a win, all around.
They spend several weeks training, going over protocols, learning the system again. Luther is cautious, and Diego wants everything to be perfect. Klaus is anxious about his new abilities (hello, levitation), and Ben seems pretty well adjusted despite the fact that he’s dead. Vanya still looks terrified that she’s going to kill someone, and Five can hardly be bothered to pay attention to anything that they’re doing.
Is he too distracted by the grumbling of his stomach?
Allison doesn’t know.
Allison chooses not to care.
Because everyone else is dragging her feet, but Allison is ready.
-o-
How long has it been since Allison saw her daughter?
Too long.
How long has it been since Five ate a real meal?
Also too long.
How long has it been since the Umbrella Academy went into action?
Well, that’s one thing Allison doesn’t have to wait for any longer. Honestly, she’s never been so happy to hear about a robbery in progress in her whole damn life. She’s the first to suit up, the first out the door. At the scene, she’s out of the car, mask in place, eyes zeroed in.
“Does everyone know what they’re supposed to do?” Luther asks.
“Seriously,” Diego clarifies, a little unnecessarily. “This is your last chance if you think you’re not ready.”
“I’m good,” Vanya says, and she exhales fast, breathing in just as quick. “I think I’m good.”
“I’m great,” Klaus says. He nods toward Ben, floating beside him. “Ben is also great.”
“I can speak for myself,” Ben says. Then, despite himself almost, he grins. “And I’m awesome.”
Five lets out a little breath, like this whole process is condescending for him. “Obviously I’m fine,” he says, and his eyes pass over Allison’s without quite making contact.
She shrugs. That’s his business, like he said. She adjusted her gloves. “I’m more than ready,” she says. “Let’s do this.”
No one disagrees, which is good. Because Allison is pretty sure no one can stop her from doing this. Not a lot of things in her life are under her control, but this one is. This one really is, and Allison will be damned before she lets it get by her.
-o-
It’s better than she expects, somehow.
That’s saying something, too. Luther and Diego have been guarded in their prediction. Klaus and Vanya have been nervous, and Five’s never said anything about it whatsoever. But they’ve all sort of been guarded about this process, like they’re not sure if coming together as the Umbrella Academy is a good idea or if it’s even going to work.
Allison understands their hesitations, even if she hasn’t shared them. She’s just at the point where she’s not sure they have anything to lose. They’ve already stopped the apocalypse; what’s the harm in a little run of the mill bank robbery?
And besides, when you’ve lost the thing that matters most, you sort of lose the fear of losing altogether. No one can take anything from Allison that will hurt more than what she’s lost, she’s confident in that.
She wouldn’t call it overconfidence.
It’s possible, of course, she should have.
-o-
For the start, though, things are looking good.
Honestly, they look more than good.
As a team, they charge the bank, splitting up to sweep in from three distinct entrances. Luther is taking Vanya through the front, while Diego, Klaus and Ben come in from the back. That leaves Five and Allison to take the side entrance.
Coming around, Allison holds back, as per the plan. They have planned staggered entrances to catch the robbers off hand. She listens for the first sounds of contact -- Luther and Vanya -- and waits for the second sound of contact -- Diego, Klaus and Ben -- before she waits three beats and looks at Five.
Standing there, in full gear, they should look more prepared than ever. They’re suited up. They’re trained and ready.
But standing there, next to her, Five seems small. His uniform seems bigger than it used to, and his skin is pale beneath the mask. She frowns, and for the first time, she hesitates. “You sure you’re up to this, Five?”
He blinks rapidly a few times, and when he looks at her, his expression is hard. “I’m fine,” he says.
It’s a lie, of course. Not one of intent, but one of omission. Fine is an easy word for them, a word that glosses over a lot of things. For the first time in a month, she thinks to ask the question. “Did you eat anything today?”
His lips firm into an even harder line. “I told you, Allison,” he all but growls, shoving past her toward the entrance. “I’m fine.”
Allison doubts that, but as she follows him into the building -- into the fray -- there’s not really time to question it.
-o-
Despite this auspicious beginning, things go well.
Being the last to come in, Allison finds the fight well underway. They are outmanned by a way -- these robbers have at least a dozen well armed men between them -- but Luther and Vanya have squared away two while Diego pins one with a knife and Klaus works with Ben to chase down two more who try to flee.
The other seven are scrambling in something in a retreat, and Allison makes no qualms with engaging them.
Immediately.
Five blinks away from her toward a mark of his own, and Allison trips up the first one she sees. He sprawls, his gun skittering away from him, but he gets to his feet in time to look at her, perplexed.
“Afraid to hit a girl?” she asks with a smirk. She lashes out and hits him first, a hard punch, a good punch, across the side of the that sends him crashing back down to the ground. He doesn’t get back up. “Guess you don’t have to worry about it.”
-o-
Within minutes, the Umbrella Academy has things mostly in hand. The gunmen have been subdued; none of the cash is missing. Luther is about to call it when another sound comes from the back entrance. Allison turns, thinking it might be the cops.
No such luck.
It’s more armed robbers.
10 of them, more or less.
Behind her, Diego groans. “Who the hell are these guys?”
“Mafia ties,” Luther says. “It was in the briefing.”
“The briefing didn’t talk about backup!” Vanya hisses.
“Oh shit, I think I pissed myself,” Klaus whispers. “No, wait, I’m just really sweaty. Is anyone else sweaty?”
Five strains for air, his fists balled up. “We’re fine, right?”
This time, Allison answers him. “Yeah,” she says, stepping forward to engage. Because she doesn’t care if it’s the mafia. She doesn’t care if they’re on a personal vendetta against this particular bank. She doesn’t care if they’ll shoot to kill. She just cares that this is a battle that she can win for once. “We’re more than fine.”
And the fight starts again with a hail of gunfire as the Umbrella Academy scatters into position.
-o-
It’s a hard fight. Outgunned, outnumbered, out of practice.
And none of it matters.
The Umbrella Academy still holds its own.
No, the Umbrella Academy still kicks ass.
Better yet, they do it in perfect harmony, working side by side. They play off each other’s strengths, compensate for weaknesses. They know each other, they can read each other. They know how to predict the actions the others will take, and they know how to seamlessly fall into line. This is family, this is relationship in action.
This is the best damn thing in Allison’s life right now, hands down, no questions asked.
Within minutes, the playing field has been evened substantially. It doesn’t take long to disarm most of the men, and they managed to quickly incapacitate three of the robbers. Then, Diego stabs another one while Luther finishes him off with a series of quick blows to the head. Klaus levitates someone while Vanya uses controlled bursts of energy to send him toppling out through one of the windows with a crash and a scream.
Considering the fact that a few months ago, they were the ones who caused the end of the world, this is pretty good.
No, you know what, considering nothing. This is just pretty damn good.
If this is what their father had envisioned, is this had always been his intention, then maybe Reginald Hargreeves wasn’t quite as bad as he seemed.
And if there’s hope for them -- if there’s hope for the Umbrella Academy, who caused the end of the world -- then anything is possible. She can repair her relationship with Patrick and accept his stupid live-in girl friend. She can get the judge to grant her partial custody. She can be the mother she’s meant to be -- the mother she wants to be, more than anything in this world -- to her daughter, no matter the mistakes she’s made.
With four robbers left, Klaus and Ben tackle one with the help of Luther while Vanya works with Diego to disable another. Allison saunters up to one and smiles. “I heard a rumor,” she begins, sweetly as she may.
The man looks at her, confused, while Luther sends one man through the wall. Diego has literally pinned another to the ceiling somehow. Five is behind her, going hand to hand with the other.
“That you just wanted to go home tonight, spend some time with your family,” she says. “I heard a rumor that you’re never going to commit crime again.”
The rumor draws over him, the lie impossible for him to resist. Vapidly, he nods his head, as if he’s come to some brilliant understanding. There’s no telling how well her rumor will stick. She knows better than most that they rarely turn out as simply as she wants, but she still feels like she’s doing this guy a favor.
Maybe she’s making the choice for him tonight, the choice to be better. But maybe tomorrow he’ll make the choice for himself. Maybe tomorrow will be a choice for all of them.
She watches as he wanders away, oblivious as one of his partners yells from his spot on the ceiling. Allison turns, stumbling out of the way as a flash of movement and light brush past her. She recognizes Five by the disturbance in his wake, and she sees him come out of the jump a few feet away from her. He stumbles momentarily before righting himself. On his feet again, he lunges at the last assailant, catching him with a glancing blow that he easily counters.
The impact sends Five sprawling, and he blinks out as the man tries to follow up over him. The man is off balance, and Five rematerializes behind him. She knows what Five’s capable of. She knows the man will never see it coming when the 13 year old’s hands wrap around his neck. The guy is just lucky that Five’s not fighting to kill these days, or it’d be a quick snap and it’s over.
Still, she expects it to be quick.
She expects it to be efficient.
But as Five comes out of the jump, he stumbles again. This time, he doesn’t quite recover. This time, his pale face drains of its color entirely, and something in his eyes goes dull before they roll up in his head altogether and he falters toward the ground in an ungraceful heap of falling, tangled limbs.
The man on the floor has turned by now, and he’s close enough to see his advantage. Allison, from several feet away, is too slow to do anything. The warning is lodged in her throat as the man gets to his feet, ramming his body hard into Five.
They hit the ground together, Five on the bottom. The impact is resounding, and Allison sees his limbs flop limply as his head impacts hard. He’s boneless, spread eagled on the ground, as the man straddles him with a self satisfied smirk. He’s reaching for a gun -- a small handgun, one that’s been at the small of his back this whole time -- and this is the kind of group that sends 20 people to a bank robbery.
It’s sure as hell the kind of people who will plug a little kid full of holes if he’s being a pain the ass. And okay, Five’s not actually a little kid, but he is a massive pain in the ass, and Allison is frustrated with her brother but watching him slowly kill himself by choice is not quite the same thing as watching him get murdered. She’ll have to deal with the former eventually. As for the latter?
Well, she thinks she’ll deal with that right now, thank you very much.
Allison rushes forward, clearly closer than the rest of her siblings. There’s no time for a rumor as the man levels the gun as Five’s chest, so she doesn’t bother with pretenses. Sometimes a rumor is neat and tidy, but honestly, hand to hand combat can be so much more satisfying.
So you can call it maternal instincts if you like. Or you can just attribute it to the fact that Allison’s had to sit idle in so many other areas of her life that she’s sure as hell not going to take this one sitting down.
Within seconds, she kicks the man clear off Five. He hits the ground hard and moves to compensate, but she delivers another kick quick, hard and to the temple. He drops back limply to the ground. He looks out, but Allison’s done with taking chances. She kicks him again, this time all but shattering his nose.
He doesn’t even flinch, not even as blood gushes down the sides of his face.
Plainly, Allison has won this fight.
She looks back, where Five is still sprawled, eyes closed, on the floor behind her.
It’s a pity it’s not the fight she wanted to win.
“Five?” she asks, moving back toward her fallen brother. She’s on her knees, hands on his chest before the others realize that anything is amiss. “Five!”
Her own heart is pounding loudly, which makes it hard to tell at first that Five’s heart is beating. Fast and thready, she can feel it thrumming against his thin chest. His face is all but ashen beneath the mask now, the color drained, leaving him looking young and vulnerable. She reaches up, pats his cheek, hastily pulling his mask free. The skin there is clammy and cold, and she watches as his eyes move beneath his lids.
“Five?” she tries again, tapping his cheek for good measure. “You with me?”
By the time the others arrive, flocking around them, Five’s eyes are starting to open. They are glazed, however; disoriented. His gaze flits over Allison’s face and his brows draw together before his consciousness slips away from him again.
“What happened?” Luther asks.
“Which bastard did this?” Diego says, his fists clenching. “I’ll kill him--”
“But is he okay?” Klaus asks.
“We need to get him out of here--” adds Ben.
It’s Vanya who gets down on Five’s other side, reaching down and pressing her hand to his chest. “Five,” she says, voice almost a whisper, the single syllable halting on her lips.
Allison feels her own heart give a start because she knows what it’s like to worry about someone, to worry so much that it feels like it might kill you. She knows what it’s like to be crippled by the unknown, to be stymied by the things you can’t control.
She knows what that’s like.
And she knows this isn’t it.
She draws a breath, and she finds the strength that she has to have. “One of his jumps went bad, he got thrown off,” she explains, moving around to Five’s head and getting on her feet. “He hit his head pretty hard on the ground.”
This is all true and to the point. For all she actually knows, it’s probably true. The fact that Five’s jump failed due to exhaustion is maybe self explanatory. The fact that the exhaustion is probably caused by lack of nutrition -- well, Allison’s no doctor. And now is no time to play the I-told-you-so game.
“We’ll want to get him back, have Mom check him out for concussion,” she says, scooping him up under the arms. “Someone want to give me a hand?”
Vanya is too distraught -- her first mission is hard enough, Five being injured is another -- and Klaus moves to help but steps aside as Luther and Diego step forward together. They vie for position momentarily before Diego backs off and Luther effortlessly takes up Five’s legs and he hoists in unison with Allison.
“I’ll get the car started,” Diego mutters.
“And we need to call the cops, right? Have we called the cops?” Klaus says, following after him.
“We can do that now,” Ben says for him. “But you’ll need to use your phone.”
“I have to do all the hard work,” Klaus says, shaking his head.
Allison starts forward, Luther keeping pace. Vanya sticks close to them; her eyes are wet with tears she doesn’t quite shed, and Allison can feel the depth of her emotions vibrating between them. “He’s okay, isn’t it?” she asks. “I mean, a concussion. He’s okay?”
Allison can’t quite bring her lips to smile, but she sets them in the closest approximation she can come up with. “We’ll get him looked at.”
“We’ve all had concussions,” Luther says, and he does manage a smile for Vanya’s sake as they step over a few incapacitated robbers on their way to the door. “We’ll get it looked at. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Vanya still looks to Allison, looks between her and Five a few more times, searching for further confirmation.
Sister to sister, Allison wants to give it. She knows that Vanya needs the reassurance. She needs the encouragement, the stability, the support.
Her own gaze lingers on Five. His slack body hands between her and Luther, and his head is resting against Allison’s chest, his limp, pale hands lying limply on his stomach as his legs dangly, knobbly and thin, over Luther’s meaty forearms.
Sister to brother, she doesn’t feel compelled to offer it. Because concussions, yeah. They’ve all had concussions, and they’re not flippant about that, but it’s nothing they haven’t dealt with before.
But this?
Allison maneuvers her way out the door where Klaus, Ben and Diego are waiting with the car.
Five’s arm slips off his stomach and dangles flaccidly toward the ground.
This is a whole lot more than a concussion.
This is a failure of discipline. A failure of accountability. A failure of basic self care.
A failure of trust.
A head injury will heal; you can replenish nutrients as needed. Both of these things will get Five back on his feet, but Allison fears that neither will make Five better again.
Vanya stops her, hand on her arm. “Allison,” she says. “What aren’t you telling me? He’s okay, right? He’s got to be okay.”
Allison looks up, and the lie is easy to tell. The lie is the natural thing to offer right now.
She swallows it back, and forces up the bitter truth, rough and jagged against the inside of her throat. “I don’t know,” she says. “I really don’t know.”
-o-
Piled back in the van, it’s probably not the triumphant return any of them had hoped. It’s not fair, sometimes, how hard you have to work to get back -- and how it’s still never, still never enough. Allison holds Five next to her, his body anchored between her and Vanya. In the seat in front of them, Klaus looks back. Luther is driving while Diego gives him directions back to the mansion.
For his part, Five doesn’t stir, but Allison can feel him breath. She keeps her fingers loosely against his wrist, where his pulse trips quickly and quietly against her touch. The vulnerability accentuate his age, and Allison knows Five would hate that.
Vanya watches him fretfully, smoothing his bangs back from his forehead from time to time.
Too often in life the choices are not the ones we think we’re making. It’s hard to always see that when you choose one thing, you’re choosing a lot of others things to go along with it. The choice is ours to control, but if we understand the extent of the consequences, it might change the choice.
If someone had told her, laid it out plainly, that a rumor would cost her her daughter, Allison never would have told the lie. She knows that now. She knows that, better than she knows anything else in this world. It’s a lesson learned, too little, too late.
She adjusts her arm, keeping Five’s head propped up as the car hits a rough patch in the road.
Too little, too late.
She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe.
That’s better, at least, than not at all.
-o-
It’s funny in a way because they’ve trained for this. Emergency protocols had always been a thing in the Umbrella Academy, and even when they were kids, their father had trained them how to act in case of injury. When they decided to restart the group, updating and reviewing the procedures had been a must for both Luther and Diego. As a group, they’d agreed, conducting the rehearsals with minimal excitement as Klaus whined about whether or not it was really necessary.
By that logic, they should know what to do. They have it memorized, internalized.
This isn’t the kind of thing you can master, though. You’re never prepared for it.
Because they’re not a team. They’re not a crime fighting unit. And it helps that they’re not children anymore, but that doesn’t speak to what they are. A family.
It’s different when one of your siblings won’t wake up. When it’s your brother’s pale face, your brother’s clammy skin. It’s different when you’re slinging dead weight of someone you care about up onto the exam table, watching as Mom hooks up cords and monitors.
The rehearsals never features someone so still, so pliable, so vulnerable.
It’s silly how they acted like that was the end. Getting them all back, getting the medical support, like that’s the end of it.
Living it out, standing there while Mom asks them to leave the room while she finishes her exam, Allison sees that this is the end of training.
And it’s the beginning of life.
Messy, hard, complicated and scary. All the things they’ve trained for, all the things they’re ready for.
There’s no way in hell they’re ready for this.
-o-
On the other side of the closed door, Allison is the first to speak. Her siblings are shellshocked, still standing behind the closed door. Vanya hasn’t moved, arms slack at her sides. Klaus rubs his arms up and down over his biceps, as if he’s cold. Diego stands with his fists clenched, and Luther looks like he’s torn between ripping the door down and demanding to stay with Five and running back to his room to cry. Ben is hazy, in a very literal sense, with his grief.
“We’ve done everything we can,” she says, and she thinks she’s trying to be a comfort to them. She thinks she’s trying to offer solace, offer something.
“We should have been more prepared,” Luther says.
Diego shakes his head, looking pissed as hell. “We have to work harder next time.”
“I’d forgotten, though,” Klaus says, rubbing his fingers of his goatee. He looks at Ben. “How bad this is.”
Ben smiles faintly.
Vanya’s breath is stuttered. She blinks and her eyes are wet. “Is this what it’s always like?”
No one answers her; no one knows how. It’s this and worse. It’s this and better.
It’s this
Allison holds firm. Her truth is a constant thing, deeper, truer than the rest. It has to be. The lies she’s told has stripped her back to this. “We’ve done everything we can.”
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
-o-
There’s no call from the lawyer, no call from Patrick, but one day, she makes French toast and serves it hot and warm with syrup to Five as she makes himself coffee in the kitchen and he’s had enough.
He looks at the plate, the steaming food, and his jaw tightens.
He looks up at Allison, the look hardening to anger in his eyes.
“You know what?” he says, picking up the plate. He stomps to the trash, and takes off the lid and throws the whole thing, plate, fork and all, into the trash. “That’s it. That’s enough.”
She stares at him, stunned. This is what she’s been working for, what she’s been counting on. Now that it’s happening, however, she realizes that she’s woefully unprepared. All these ideas of breaking Five, and it turns out Luther’s right. She doesn’t have a clue about how to actuall fix him. There’s no step by step, court ordered process. There’s no custody agreement, hammered out by lawyers.
There’s just Five.
An angry, skinny 58 year old in a 13 year old body.
Fuming over his lack of control.
She wants to tell him that she knows the feeling, but he doesn’t seem like he wants to listen.
“It’s enough,” he says again, letting the words drip with venom. “All your cooking, all your food, all your serving it on fancy little plates, day after day after day. It’s enough.”
She stares at him, the griddle still hot while another batch of French toast cooks. She’s hold a spatula. “But you haven’t eaten yet.”
“So?” he asks. “So what?”
“So,” she says, pausing to flip the pieces of egg-soaked bread. “That’s the point, isn’t it? That you eat?”
“I thought the point was for me to develop a healthy relationship with food,” he seethes.
“Well, yeah,” she says. “You know, by eating. Real meals. Before you get sick or pass out or kill yourself -- or worse, one of us.”
He shakes his head, vehement as he points at the trash. “It’s food! You can’t have a relationship with it!”
She scoffs. “Well, you certainly don’t.”
He throws his hands up. “And so what if I do or don’t!” he explodes, the pent up frustration the the week-long stand off proving to be too much for him. “It’s just food! And you know what? I’m not your responsibility!”
He jabs a finger at her in accusation, his face twisted up vindictively. She knows then that she’s pushed the right buttons. She’s played this right, played it to damn near perfect. She wanted him to break, and here he is, spitting pieces of himself at her like he’s got nothing left to lose.
Her stand, then, matters. And she’s worked hard to get to this point, and she finds that she’s at a precipice she doesn’t quite understand. For the first time, she’s not sure if she actually wants to jump but it appears as if there’s no other option. “But you are,” she says, and her accusation breaks on emotion, something pleading in her tone for him to understand. That yes, this is a war, but it’s not over the things he thinks it is.
He doesn’t get it, though. He shakes his head, more adamant than ever. “Why? Because you think I’m 13?”
He’s betraying himself a bit, the bitter cut in his voice suggesting his own frustration and self loathing -- things that have nothing to do with Allison and very little to do with food. Except that they are things he can’t control -- his diet, apparently -- is something he still thinks is his domain.
And for some reason, it makes her bristle. It makes her step back; it makes her breath catch.. Because for all that it exposes his own pain, it cuts her deeper than probably intended. It hurts because she cares about him, she cares about him so damn much, and he doesn’t see it. Standing there, he sees his own failures, his own weaknesses, his own struggle for volition.
He still thinks this actually is about food.
He doesn’t get it.
Smart as he is, capable as he is, experienced as he is -- he doesn’t have a damn clue. He doesn’t understand that he’s lucky that he has a choice. He doesn’t understand that he’s lucky that he gets to choose. He doesn’t understand how utterly stupid he is -- pointlessly, senselssly stupid he is -- for squandering that choice, willfully, spitefully, day after day. That he has the chance for relationship, it’s entirely within his control, and he’ll reject it just to prove that he can.
Her voice is tighter now; her eyes burning. “Because we’re family, you asshole, and I’m worried about you,” she says. “That’s why.”
It’s more emotional than he’s expecting; more emotional than he is probably equipped to deal with. This is still a war, after all. And Five always fights to win.
That’s what she tells herself later, when she’s calm and rational. That’s how she justifies loving her brother despite the words that come out of his mouth next.
“Well, you should worry about the family that needs you. You should worry about Claire. You remember, right, your daughter?” he asks, and the smile that tugs at his lips is dark and angry. His eyes glint as he goes for the kill. “Have you gotten visitation yet? Because that’s the relationship you should care about right now. Much longer, and she’s not even going to recognize you.”
Later, she can rationalize it. Later, she can attribute it all to the heat of the moment and Five’s emotional incapacity. Later, she can understand it, sympathize with him even. Later, she knows. Later, when she’s calm, when she’s collected. Later, when her emotions are in check.
Later, when she can cope.
Later it’s good, it is.
Unfortunately, later is not now.
Right now, right here, in this moment, there’s no later. There’s no reflection. There’s no mature understanding. There’s no abstract analysis and clinical assessment. Right here, right now, there’s just pain.
Because his words -- as brash as they are, as much as Five doesn’t mean them -- hurt. And not just a little. This isn’t a casual barb; this isn’t sibling banter. This can’t be chuckled away or handled with a quirky roll of the eyes.
No, this hurts. It hits at the wound deep inside her, the one that has been festering for days, for weeks. It doesn’t just find her weakness. It doesn’t even exploit her weakness. It takes her weakness and goes for the kill. It strikes at her to her very core, to her part of herself she holds most true. It cuts her down, strips her away, and reveals who Allison Hargreeves is, who she really is. It reveals, in utter rawness, the woman, the mother, the person, she wants to be.
It reveals, to her horror, the person she doesn’t know if she can be.
For that person, later is too abstract of a concept. Later is a court date that is never set. Later is a phone call that Patrick never lets happen. Later is a hug from her daughter that is months in the making.
Later, mostly, is not now.
Her jaw is tight; her eyes are burning so bad that she can barely see anything other than the smug look on his small, square jaw. “You don’t have to be a bastard, Five.”
There’s no remorse on his face, though she wonders if she’s imagining the faintest flicker of it in his eyes. He’s made his choice, though, as much as she’s made hers. They’re standing their ground now. They’re drawing their lines in the sand. No matter what. “And you don’t have to be willfully stupid,” he says. “I’m fine, Allison. Trust me.”
His voice has softened just a little, the edge dulling from vitriol to imploration. It’s sentimental in effect, but that just makes it worse. He wants her to trust him. He’s asking that of her. After all of this, everything he’s said, he wants her trust.
She knows they’re family. She knows she loves him and that he loves her, each in their own ways. But love is its own thing, its own unique thing. Love and trust work best when they go hand in hand, but it’s never that simple.
What Five has said here.
The place he’s attacked her.
It has nothing to do with love or trust.
Of course, this is evidence that she has broken Five. She’s pushed his buttons and finally elicited a response she needed to work through this issue. The problem is that, in the process, he’s broken her as well. And she’s not sure there’s enough of her here, right now, to give back to him. She can’t put him together while the pieces of herself are still falling apart.
She broke his patience, it seems.
But Five broke her will.
And Allison will give anything for a worthwhile cause -- she will -- but for someone who doesn’t want it? For someone who will throw it back at her spitefully? All her time, all her effort -- it’s wasted here. It’s empty; pointless. It’s broken dishes and food in the trash. Allison has her limits, in the end. She always has. She can’t break for Claire’s sake, but she will break for Five’s. That’s the problem, when you get right down to it. Allison only has so much to give, and Five’s asking for all of it with his tantrums and his denials and his insults. If she gives it all to Five, gives up everything inside of her, she’ll have nothing left for Claire.
In her own way, Allison is starving herself just as much as Five is.
The difference is that she’s smart enough to see it.
“Fine, you know what?” she says, making a show of unplugging the skillet and throwing her hands up in the air. “You win, Five. You win.”
She stalks across the room toward him and stares him down. He’s a tough piece of shit, though; he doesn’t flinch. Still, she can see the flicker of doubt sparking behind his eyes.
She could pull back now; she could try to salvage this, but she’s done. She’s crossed the point of no return, and Patrick can have his stupid live in girlfiend, the lawyer can burn through all her cash, the judge can sit on her case for months on end and Five can die of malnutrition for all she cares. If she’s going to pick and choose, she’s going to end up with Claire, hands down, no matter what.
All the rest -- everyone else in her life -- can be collateral damage.
“You win,” she says again, and it’s her voice that’s vindictive now. There are some hills she’ll die on, but she has found out that this isn’t one of them. “Don’t have a relationship with food. Don’t have any relationship at all. You win.”
She doesn’t wait for a reaction, doesn’t humor a response. She storms out of the kitchen, leaving Five, his uneaten breakfast, and the whole damn plan to rot.
-o-
The thing about doing nothing is that -- well, it’s doing nothing. It’s really, really easy. She’s been working her ass off the last couple weeks, tracking Five’s habits, trying to trick him into eating. She’s been plotting and planning and worrying and cooking.
Now, just like that, she doesn’t have to do anything.
She doesn’t pay attention to when Five gets up. She doesn’t monitor his hobbies. She doesn’t double check on him to make sure he’s eaten, and she sure as hell isn’t wasting her time making him food he doesn’t want to eat.
It’s strangely liberating, having her life back again. There’s time to rest; there’s time to read a book. She starts watching a soap opera for shits and giggles. She takes Klaus to his AA meetings. She spars with Diego and kicks his ass. She discusses poetry with Ben. She lets Luther take her on a date, a proper date.
And Vanya -- well, there’s no shortage of things to do with Vanya. They listen to music. Hell, they go to concerts. Vanya takes her to a string quartet, and Allison finds a local bar with live shows on Friday nights. They do shots and eat pastries and laugh over dinner like actual sisters should.
Every time she catches sight of Five, skulking in the background, she makes a point to look the other way. When she picks up food, she never brings any for him. One day, she makes herself three peanut butter sandwiches and leaves the empty jar on the counter just because she can.
Is she being petty? Yes, yes she is. But so what? Why shouldn’t she be petty? Five’s right; he’s the one who said it. He’s not her responsibility. If he thinks he’s fine, then that’s for him to figure out. As long as he can live his life and do his part in the team, then Allison hasn’t got any business giving a shit at all.
Besides, she’s done being nice to boys who think they are too smart, too clever and too smug for her. She’s Allison Hargreeves. She’s an award winning actress and a millionaire in her own right. She owns a damn production company. She won’t her failed relationship with Patrick ruin her any more than she’ll let a strained relationship with her brother bring her down. She’s got better things to do, starting with Claire and ending with herself.
If this is losing, then she decides it’s probably not so bad.
-o-
There are times, however, when she’s less sure. There are times when she sees him loitering behind her, the look of apology on his face. There are times when he seems to hover outside the kitchen, waiting to see if she’ll come.
She’s angry, but she’s not a bitch. She makes eye contact and holds it long enough to give him a chance.
Under pressure, though, Five folds. He ducks his eyes and says nothing.
That’s his choice, however. He has to live with it.
Just like Allison has to live with hers.
-o-
The problem is still Claire. The problem has always been Claire. Patrick is screening her calls now, and when he leaves voice messages at 3 AM, he’s always vague.
Claire wants to see you really bad, she does.
But he always ends the same.
I just don’t know if I can trust you yet.
That’s probably why Five’s request, his demand for trust is so outrageous to her. All her life, Allison has played fast and loose with trust. She’s taken it so flippantly when it wasn’t earned. That’s no way to live, and she knows that now.
Some people, the Hargreeves in particular, may just have to learn that lesson the hard way.
-o-
Another week, and Five does break.
He’s waiting downstairs in the morning, and there’s not a drop of coffee in sight. He’s dressed, hands in his pockets, and he’s staring at the door until she comes through.
“Hi,” she says awkwardly, not sure what to do with the sudden intensity of his scrutiny. She slinks toward the fridge. “Do you need something?”
“Yes,” he says. “I need breakfast.”
Her heart skips a beat, but she does what she can not to show it. “Okay,” she says slowly, opening the door to the fridge and taking out the jug of juice. “So, eat something.”
Five looks perturbed, like she’s putting him out. “I thought we could eat breakfast. Together.”
The words are sensible and Allison understands them in theory. The practical application is a little harder to grasp. “I don’t get it.”
He huffs, growing visibly frustrated. “I thought we could go out, eat some breakfast. You drive, I pay. Yadda, yadda, yadda.”
That’s surreal, that’s what it is. One week ago, he’s telling her to leave him alone. One week later, he’s making every concession she’s ever asked for. He’s surrendering; that’s what he’s doing.
The problem is that the terms are all wrong.
Allison can’t win battles in life. That’s not what a relationship is, is it? A relationship is growth, it’s change, it’s vulnerability. It’s the ability to say you’re wrong.
“So you admit it, then?” Allison asks, arching one of her eyebrows keenly. “You admit that you have a problem with food?”
Five is almost flummoxed now, a red rising up his cheeks. “No, of course not,” he says. He makes an uncomfortable gesture in her direction. “I just know I hurt your feelings. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Ah,” Allison says, reaching for a glass and pouring some juice into it. “So this is a pity breakfast.”
“It’s breakfast, that’s all,” Five replies curtly.
“No,” Allison says, screwing the lid back on the jug. “It’s you wanting to apologize for being an asshole.”
“Okay, yes,” Five says, shrugging his shoulders. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I’m not discouraging it,” Allison says, putting the juice away.
Five seems to brightened. “Good. So we’ll go?”
Allison picks up the glass and shakes her head. “No.”
His face darkens just that fast again. “What do you mean no? This is what you wanted.”
“No, it’s not,” she says. “I mean, I’m not against a little sibling bonding, and I do want a relationship with you, Five. But that relationship -- as much as you’ve tried to screw it up -- has never been in doubt. The relationship that I’m worried about is the one you have--”
He rolls his eyes. “--with food, I know.”
“With yourself,” she corrects him finally. She scoffs at his blindness. “You can’t even see what you’re doing to yourself, and you’re not willing to acknowledge why. We’re all doing what we need to do to fix our lives -- but you? You’re going around like the world is still ending, and it’s not. You need to change, and you don’t want to, so I told you. You win, Five. Don’t change. You win.”
The emotions play across his face, settling into tense lines around his mouth. “I’m not trying to win,” he says. “The food isn’t that big of deal. I’m serious. But I don’t want our relationship to be strained, so I’ll go out--”
She waves a hand at him dismissively. “The apology is noted, it really is,” she says. “But I’ll take a raincheck on the breakfast until you’re actually hungry.”
End scene, cue the lights, and give Allison the damn Oscar now, thank you very much.
If only being right actually got you anywhere in life.
-o-
The irony is that Allison’s own appetite has been dwindling. All this talk of food, and Allison hasn’t got the stomach for it. She goes out to eat with her siblings, she takes part in family meals, but none of it tastes right, and she feels it roiling in her gut afterward.
Because the food is nice, and being with her siblings is great, and it’s even good to be back on speaking terms with Five.
But Claire.
She doesn’t just miss Claire.
She craves her daughter. The loss of that relationship, the want of it -- makes her nearly physically ill. It’s crippling, and she feels herself shriveling up from the loss of sustenance.
Desperate, she breaks down and calls her lawyer that night. To her surprise, he answers.
“Ms. Hargreeves! Good to hear from you!”
Allison blinks, surprised. “Why?” she asks, and her chest clenches as her stomach turns. “Is there news? Did you hear something?”
“No, nothing official or anything like that,” the lawyer backtracks with a self deprecating chuckle. “But I did a little asking around, and I found out that your case is on the docket for Judge Denner. Now, I know Denner. She’s young, she’s got kids. She’s a soft touch for mothers.”
Allison shakes her head, not sure she follows. “So, when is she going to look at the case?”
“Well, Denner’s slow, is the thing. Thorough, you could say,” the lawyer explains. “I asked around, and she’s been sitting on a bunch of cases. I’ve got a friend who has a client who’s been shuffled on Denner’s desk for six months.”
“Months?” Allison asks, breath catching in her throat. “But I’ve been done with my therapy for months now. I’ve done everything they’ve asked from me. I can’t give up six more months of my daughter’s life.”
“There’s no choice, I’m afraid,” the lawyer says. “It’s going to be soon.”
“Six months isn’t soon,” Allison points out.
“If there was anything I could do about it, I would, I promise you. There’s just nothing, I’m afraid. It’s out of your hands.”
She ends the call with numb fingers and doesn’t bother saying goodbye.
If Five kills himself, it’ll be his choice.
If Allison ends up dead, there’ll be nothing she can do about it.
She hates him a little for it.
In the end, as she curls up on top of the covers still in her clothes, she still hates herself more.
-o-
Five is no longer an apt distraction, but she lives in a house with her superpowered siblings. There is always a distraction. And the reimplementation of the Umbrella Academy is just the kind of distraction she needs.
It’s based on family. It’s a force used to help people in need. And she gets to beat the shit out of people in the process.
It’s a win, all around.
They spend several weeks training, going over protocols, learning the system again. Luther is cautious, and Diego wants everything to be perfect. Klaus is anxious about his new abilities (hello, levitation), and Ben seems pretty well adjusted despite the fact that he’s dead. Vanya still looks terrified that she’s going to kill someone, and Five can hardly be bothered to pay attention to anything that they’re doing.
Is he too distracted by the grumbling of his stomach?
Allison doesn’t know.
Allison chooses not to care.
Because everyone else is dragging her feet, but Allison is ready.
-o-
How long has it been since Allison saw her daughter?
Too long.
How long has it been since Five ate a real meal?
Also too long.
How long has it been since the Umbrella Academy went into action?
Well, that’s one thing Allison doesn’t have to wait for any longer. Honestly, she’s never been so happy to hear about a robbery in progress in her whole damn life. She’s the first to suit up, the first out the door. At the scene, she’s out of the car, mask in place, eyes zeroed in.
“Does everyone know what they’re supposed to do?” Luther asks.
“Seriously,” Diego clarifies, a little unnecessarily. “This is your last chance if you think you’re not ready.”
“I’m good,” Vanya says, and she exhales fast, breathing in just as quick. “I think I’m good.”
“I’m great,” Klaus says. He nods toward Ben, floating beside him. “Ben is also great.”
“I can speak for myself,” Ben says. Then, despite himself almost, he grins. “And I’m awesome.”
Five lets out a little breath, like this whole process is condescending for him. “Obviously I’m fine,” he says, and his eyes pass over Allison’s without quite making contact.
She shrugs. That’s his business, like he said. She adjusted her gloves. “I’m more than ready,” she says. “Let’s do this.”
No one disagrees, which is good. Because Allison is pretty sure no one can stop her from doing this. Not a lot of things in her life are under her control, but this one is. This one really is, and Allison will be damned before she lets it get by her.
-o-
It’s better than she expects, somehow.
That’s saying something, too. Luther and Diego have been guarded in their prediction. Klaus and Vanya have been nervous, and Five’s never said anything about it whatsoever. But they’ve all sort of been guarded about this process, like they’re not sure if coming together as the Umbrella Academy is a good idea or if it’s even going to work.
Allison understands their hesitations, even if she hasn’t shared them. She’s just at the point where she’s not sure they have anything to lose. They’ve already stopped the apocalypse; what’s the harm in a little run of the mill bank robbery?
And besides, when you’ve lost the thing that matters most, you sort of lose the fear of losing altogether. No one can take anything from Allison that will hurt more than what she’s lost, she’s confident in that.
She wouldn’t call it overconfidence.
It’s possible, of course, she should have.
-o-
For the start, though, things are looking good.
Honestly, they look more than good.
As a team, they charge the bank, splitting up to sweep in from three distinct entrances. Luther is taking Vanya through the front, while Diego, Klaus and Ben come in from the back. That leaves Five and Allison to take the side entrance.
Coming around, Allison holds back, as per the plan. They have planned staggered entrances to catch the robbers off hand. She listens for the first sounds of contact -- Luther and Vanya -- and waits for the second sound of contact -- Diego, Klaus and Ben -- before she waits three beats and looks at Five.
Standing there, in full gear, they should look more prepared than ever. They’re suited up. They’re trained and ready.
But standing there, next to her, Five seems small. His uniform seems bigger than it used to, and his skin is pale beneath the mask. She frowns, and for the first time, she hesitates. “You sure you’re up to this, Five?”
He blinks rapidly a few times, and when he looks at her, his expression is hard. “I’m fine,” he says.
It’s a lie, of course. Not one of intent, but one of omission. Fine is an easy word for them, a word that glosses over a lot of things. For the first time in a month, she thinks to ask the question. “Did you eat anything today?”
His lips firm into an even harder line. “I told you, Allison,” he all but growls, shoving past her toward the entrance. “I’m fine.”
Allison doubts that, but as she follows him into the building -- into the fray -- there’s not really time to question it.
-o-
Despite this auspicious beginning, things go well.
Being the last to come in, Allison finds the fight well underway. They are outmanned by a way -- these robbers have at least a dozen well armed men between them -- but Luther and Vanya have squared away two while Diego pins one with a knife and Klaus works with Ben to chase down two more who try to flee.
The other seven are scrambling in something in a retreat, and Allison makes no qualms with engaging them.
Immediately.
Five blinks away from her toward a mark of his own, and Allison trips up the first one she sees. He sprawls, his gun skittering away from him, but he gets to his feet in time to look at her, perplexed.
“Afraid to hit a girl?” she asks with a smirk. She lashes out and hits him first, a hard punch, a good punch, across the side of the that sends him crashing back down to the ground. He doesn’t get back up. “Guess you don’t have to worry about it.”
-o-
Within minutes, the Umbrella Academy has things mostly in hand. The gunmen have been subdued; none of the cash is missing. Luther is about to call it when another sound comes from the back entrance. Allison turns, thinking it might be the cops.
No such luck.
It’s more armed robbers.
10 of them, more or less.
Behind her, Diego groans. “Who the hell are these guys?”
“Mafia ties,” Luther says. “It was in the briefing.”
“The briefing didn’t talk about backup!” Vanya hisses.
“Oh shit, I think I pissed myself,” Klaus whispers. “No, wait, I’m just really sweaty. Is anyone else sweaty?”
Five strains for air, his fists balled up. “We’re fine, right?”
This time, Allison answers him. “Yeah,” she says, stepping forward to engage. Because she doesn’t care if it’s the mafia. She doesn’t care if they’re on a personal vendetta against this particular bank. She doesn’t care if they’ll shoot to kill. She just cares that this is a battle that she can win for once. “We’re more than fine.”
And the fight starts again with a hail of gunfire as the Umbrella Academy scatters into position.
-o-
It’s a hard fight. Outgunned, outnumbered, out of practice.
And none of it matters.
The Umbrella Academy still holds its own.
No, the Umbrella Academy still kicks ass.
Better yet, they do it in perfect harmony, working side by side. They play off each other’s strengths, compensate for weaknesses. They know each other, they can read each other. They know how to predict the actions the others will take, and they know how to seamlessly fall into line. This is family, this is relationship in action.
This is the best damn thing in Allison’s life right now, hands down, no questions asked.
Within minutes, the playing field has been evened substantially. It doesn’t take long to disarm most of the men, and they managed to quickly incapacitate three of the robbers. Then, Diego stabs another one while Luther finishes him off with a series of quick blows to the head. Klaus levitates someone while Vanya uses controlled bursts of energy to send him toppling out through one of the windows with a crash and a scream.
Considering the fact that a few months ago, they were the ones who caused the end of the world, this is pretty good.
No, you know what, considering nothing. This is just pretty damn good.
If this is what their father had envisioned, is this had always been his intention, then maybe Reginald Hargreeves wasn’t quite as bad as he seemed.
And if there’s hope for them -- if there’s hope for the Umbrella Academy, who caused the end of the world -- then anything is possible. She can repair her relationship with Patrick and accept his stupid live-in girl friend. She can get the judge to grant her partial custody. She can be the mother she’s meant to be -- the mother she wants to be, more than anything in this world -- to her daughter, no matter the mistakes she’s made.
With four robbers left, Klaus and Ben tackle one with the help of Luther while Vanya works with Diego to disable another. Allison saunters up to one and smiles. “I heard a rumor,” she begins, sweetly as she may.
The man looks at her, confused, while Luther sends one man through the wall. Diego has literally pinned another to the ceiling somehow. Five is behind her, going hand to hand with the other.
“That you just wanted to go home tonight, spend some time with your family,” she says. “I heard a rumor that you’re never going to commit crime again.”
The rumor draws over him, the lie impossible for him to resist. Vapidly, he nods his head, as if he’s come to some brilliant understanding. There’s no telling how well her rumor will stick. She knows better than most that they rarely turn out as simply as she wants, but she still feels like she’s doing this guy a favor.
Maybe she’s making the choice for him tonight, the choice to be better. But maybe tomorrow he’ll make the choice for himself. Maybe tomorrow will be a choice for all of them.
She watches as he wanders away, oblivious as one of his partners yells from his spot on the ceiling. Allison turns, stumbling out of the way as a flash of movement and light brush past her. She recognizes Five by the disturbance in his wake, and she sees him come out of the jump a few feet away from her. He stumbles momentarily before righting himself. On his feet again, he lunges at the last assailant, catching him with a glancing blow that he easily counters.
The impact sends Five sprawling, and he blinks out as the man tries to follow up over him. The man is off balance, and Five rematerializes behind him. She knows what Five’s capable of. She knows the man will never see it coming when the 13 year old’s hands wrap around his neck. The guy is just lucky that Five’s not fighting to kill these days, or it’d be a quick snap and it’s over.
Still, she expects it to be quick.
She expects it to be efficient.
But as Five comes out of the jump, he stumbles again. This time, he doesn’t quite recover. This time, his pale face drains of its color entirely, and something in his eyes goes dull before they roll up in his head altogether and he falters toward the ground in an ungraceful heap of falling, tangled limbs.
The man on the floor has turned by now, and he’s close enough to see his advantage. Allison, from several feet away, is too slow to do anything. The warning is lodged in her throat as the man gets to his feet, ramming his body hard into Five.
They hit the ground together, Five on the bottom. The impact is resounding, and Allison sees his limbs flop limply as his head impacts hard. He’s boneless, spread eagled on the ground, as the man straddles him with a self satisfied smirk. He’s reaching for a gun -- a small handgun, one that’s been at the small of his back this whole time -- and this is the kind of group that sends 20 people to a bank robbery.
It’s sure as hell the kind of people who will plug a little kid full of holes if he’s being a pain the ass. And okay, Five’s not actually a little kid, but he is a massive pain in the ass, and Allison is frustrated with her brother but watching him slowly kill himself by choice is not quite the same thing as watching him get murdered. She’ll have to deal with the former eventually. As for the latter?
Well, she thinks she’ll deal with that right now, thank you very much.
Allison rushes forward, clearly closer than the rest of her siblings. There’s no time for a rumor as the man levels the gun as Five’s chest, so she doesn’t bother with pretenses. Sometimes a rumor is neat and tidy, but honestly, hand to hand combat can be so much more satisfying.
So you can call it maternal instincts if you like. Or you can just attribute it to the fact that Allison’s had to sit idle in so many other areas of her life that she’s sure as hell not going to take this one sitting down.
Within seconds, she kicks the man clear off Five. He hits the ground hard and moves to compensate, but she delivers another kick quick, hard and to the temple. He drops back limply to the ground. He looks out, but Allison’s done with taking chances. She kicks him again, this time all but shattering his nose.
He doesn’t even flinch, not even as blood gushes down the sides of his face.
Plainly, Allison has won this fight.
She looks back, where Five is still sprawled, eyes closed, on the floor behind her.
It’s a pity it’s not the fight she wanted to win.
“Five?” she asks, moving back toward her fallen brother. She’s on her knees, hands on his chest before the others realize that anything is amiss. “Five!”
Her own heart is pounding loudly, which makes it hard to tell at first that Five’s heart is beating. Fast and thready, she can feel it thrumming against his thin chest. His face is all but ashen beneath the mask now, the color drained, leaving him looking young and vulnerable. She reaches up, pats his cheek, hastily pulling his mask free. The skin there is clammy and cold, and she watches as his eyes move beneath his lids.
“Five?” she tries again, tapping his cheek for good measure. “You with me?”
By the time the others arrive, flocking around them, Five’s eyes are starting to open. They are glazed, however; disoriented. His gaze flits over Allison’s face and his brows draw together before his consciousness slips away from him again.
“What happened?” Luther asks.
“Which bastard did this?” Diego says, his fists clenching. “I’ll kill him--”
“But is he okay?” Klaus asks.
“We need to get him out of here--” adds Ben.
It’s Vanya who gets down on Five’s other side, reaching down and pressing her hand to his chest. “Five,” she says, voice almost a whisper, the single syllable halting on her lips.
Allison feels her own heart give a start because she knows what it’s like to worry about someone, to worry so much that it feels like it might kill you. She knows what it’s like to be crippled by the unknown, to be stymied by the things you can’t control.
She knows what that’s like.
And she knows this isn’t it.
She draws a breath, and she finds the strength that she has to have. “One of his jumps went bad, he got thrown off,” she explains, moving around to Five’s head and getting on her feet. “He hit his head pretty hard on the ground.”
This is all true and to the point. For all she actually knows, it’s probably true. The fact that Five’s jump failed due to exhaustion is maybe self explanatory. The fact that the exhaustion is probably caused by lack of nutrition -- well, Allison’s no doctor. And now is no time to play the I-told-you-so game.
“We’ll want to get him back, have Mom check him out for concussion,” she says, scooping him up under the arms. “Someone want to give me a hand?”
Vanya is too distraught -- her first mission is hard enough, Five being injured is another -- and Klaus moves to help but steps aside as Luther and Diego step forward together. They vie for position momentarily before Diego backs off and Luther effortlessly takes up Five’s legs and he hoists in unison with Allison.
“I’ll get the car started,” Diego mutters.
“And we need to call the cops, right? Have we called the cops?” Klaus says, following after him.
“We can do that now,” Ben says for him. “But you’ll need to use your phone.”
“I have to do all the hard work,” Klaus says, shaking his head.
Allison starts forward, Luther keeping pace. Vanya sticks close to them; her eyes are wet with tears she doesn’t quite shed, and Allison can feel the depth of her emotions vibrating between them. “He’s okay, isn’t it?” she asks. “I mean, a concussion. He’s okay?”
Allison can’t quite bring her lips to smile, but she sets them in the closest approximation she can come up with. “We’ll get him looked at.”
“We’ve all had concussions,” Luther says, and he does manage a smile for Vanya’s sake as they step over a few incapacitated robbers on their way to the door. “We’ll get it looked at. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Vanya still looks to Allison, looks between her and Five a few more times, searching for further confirmation.
Sister to sister, Allison wants to give it. She knows that Vanya needs the reassurance. She needs the encouragement, the stability, the support.
Her own gaze lingers on Five. His slack body hands between her and Luther, and his head is resting against Allison’s chest, his limp, pale hands lying limply on his stomach as his legs dangly, knobbly and thin, over Luther’s meaty forearms.
Sister to brother, she doesn’t feel compelled to offer it. Because concussions, yeah. They’ve all had concussions, and they’re not flippant about that, but it’s nothing they haven’t dealt with before.
But this?
Allison maneuvers her way out the door where Klaus, Ben and Diego are waiting with the car.
Five’s arm slips off his stomach and dangles flaccidly toward the ground.
This is a whole lot more than a concussion.
This is a failure of discipline. A failure of accountability. A failure of basic self care.
A failure of trust.
A head injury will heal; you can replenish nutrients as needed. Both of these things will get Five back on his feet, but Allison fears that neither will make Five better again.
Vanya stops her, hand on her arm. “Allison,” she says. “What aren’t you telling me? He’s okay, right? He’s got to be okay.”
Allison looks up, and the lie is easy to tell. The lie is the natural thing to offer right now.
She swallows it back, and forces up the bitter truth, rough and jagged against the inside of her throat. “I don’t know,” she says. “I really don’t know.”
-o-
Piled back in the van, it’s probably not the triumphant return any of them had hoped. It’s not fair, sometimes, how hard you have to work to get back -- and how it’s still never, still never enough. Allison holds Five next to her, his body anchored between her and Vanya. In the seat in front of them, Klaus looks back. Luther is driving while Diego gives him directions back to the mansion.
For his part, Five doesn’t stir, but Allison can feel him breath. She keeps her fingers loosely against his wrist, where his pulse trips quickly and quietly against her touch. The vulnerability accentuate his age, and Allison knows Five would hate that.
Vanya watches him fretfully, smoothing his bangs back from his forehead from time to time.
Too often in life the choices are not the ones we think we’re making. It’s hard to always see that when you choose one thing, you’re choosing a lot of others things to go along with it. The choice is ours to control, but if we understand the extent of the consequences, it might change the choice.
If someone had told her, laid it out plainly, that a rumor would cost her her daughter, Allison never would have told the lie. She knows that now. She knows that, better than she knows anything else in this world. It’s a lesson learned, too little, too late.
She adjusts her arm, keeping Five’s head propped up as the car hits a rough patch in the road.
Too little, too late.
She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe.
That’s better, at least, than not at all.
-o-
It’s funny in a way because they’ve trained for this. Emergency protocols had always been a thing in the Umbrella Academy, and even when they were kids, their father had trained them how to act in case of injury. When they decided to restart the group, updating and reviewing the procedures had been a must for both Luther and Diego. As a group, they’d agreed, conducting the rehearsals with minimal excitement as Klaus whined about whether or not it was really necessary.
By that logic, they should know what to do. They have it memorized, internalized.
This isn’t the kind of thing you can master, though. You’re never prepared for it.
Because they’re not a team. They’re not a crime fighting unit. And it helps that they’re not children anymore, but that doesn’t speak to what they are. A family.
It’s different when one of your siblings won’t wake up. When it’s your brother’s pale face, your brother’s clammy skin. It’s different when you’re slinging dead weight of someone you care about up onto the exam table, watching as Mom hooks up cords and monitors.
The rehearsals never features someone so still, so pliable, so vulnerable.
It’s silly how they acted like that was the end. Getting them all back, getting the medical support, like that’s the end of it.
Living it out, standing there while Mom asks them to leave the room while she finishes her exam, Allison sees that this is the end of training.
And it’s the beginning of life.
Messy, hard, complicated and scary. All the things they’ve trained for, all the things they’re ready for.
There’s no way in hell they’re ready for this.
-o-
On the other side of the closed door, Allison is the first to speak. Her siblings are shellshocked, still standing behind the closed door. Vanya hasn’t moved, arms slack at her sides. Klaus rubs his arms up and down over his biceps, as if he’s cold. Diego stands with his fists clenched, and Luther looks like he’s torn between ripping the door down and demanding to stay with Five and running back to his room to cry. Ben is hazy, in a very literal sense, with his grief.
“We’ve done everything we can,” she says, and she thinks she’s trying to be a comfort to them. She thinks she’s trying to offer solace, offer something.
“We should have been more prepared,” Luther says.
Diego shakes his head, looking pissed as hell. “We have to work harder next time.”
“I’d forgotten, though,” Klaus says, rubbing his fingers of his goatee. He looks at Ben. “How bad this is.”
Ben smiles faintly.
Vanya’s breath is stuttered. She blinks and her eyes are wet. “Is this what it’s always like?”
No one answers her; no one knows how. It’s this and worse. It’s this and better.
It’s this
Allison holds firm. Her truth is a constant thing, deeper, truer than the rest. It has to be. The lies she’s told has stripped her back to this. “We’ve done everything we can.”