Umbrella Academy fic: Five Distinct Ways Five Absolutely, 100 Percent Does Not Ask For Help (1/1)
Title: Five Distinct Ways Five Absolutely, 100 Percent Does Not Ask For Help (And One Way He Maybe, Sort of, Possibly Does)
A/N: Set post S1 with the assumption that they fix everything and end up happily back in the mansion. Fill for my asking for help square in hc_bingo. Unbeta’ed because that’s just how things are.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: The Umbrella Academy is a natural calling for Five, and he is inclined to pursue it. He’s just not sure how.
-o-
One.
See, this is the thing. The apocalypse? That big, scary, horrible traumatic event? That nightmare of a place that stole Five’s pride, childhood, security and sanity in one fell swoop?
That’s over now. Not over. The apocalypse hasn’t happened, and it isn’t going to happen, not any time soon, not on Five’s watch.
Therefore, by all discernible logic, things are fine now.
Really, that’s an understatement.
Things are so much more than fine.
Things are so far past fine that Five doesn’t actually remember what sort of descriptors are appropriate. Five’s lived his life in stages of disaster, so this? This whole fine thing?
It doesn’t even make sense.
Because it’s not just that the end of the world has been successfully avoided. It’s not even that Five has somehow managed to save the whole of humanity for years, decades, centuries to come. It’s that he’s home. He’s well and truly home. He’s with his family, and he’s safe and secure and things haven’t been this good since Five was 13 the first time around. In truth, Five wants for nothing.
And yet, Five wants.
In some ways, Five knows it’s human nature. Human beings, by their very essence, are not prone to satisfaction -- and Five much less so than most. He carries with him an innate restlessness. He does not consider this greed or vanity, but a deep-rooted intellectual curiosity. An insatiable need to push himself further.
It is the reason he walked out of the house the first time he was 13, trying to prove one point and validating the counterpoint. His ability to understand on a rational level why he yearns is perhaps his way of making sense of the desire, but it hardly serves as the primary point.
The point.
The point is, Five has to determine two weeks after saving his family and the world, is that Five wants.
To be fair, this is not unexpected. He’s read about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. After decades worrying about his next meal and his physical safety, it’s a bit of a shock to start looking at things like love, belonging and esteem. Self actualization seems to be within his reach for the first time, well, ever. It is only natural to want to reach for those loftier ambitions.
The problem is he has no idea how.
At all.
He doesn’t know how to fill his time. He doesn’t know how to define himself. He’s directionless, grounded only by a want that he has no idea how to fill. Without the apocalypse, he simply has too much time on his hands. Klaus calls it an addiction, but Klaus is a moron, and Five is confident that they don’t have AA meetings for people obsessed with the end of the world. Besides, it’s not his fault that he used a fundamental desire to save his family as a means of surviving a hellish landscape unsuited to human life. It had helped him survived for decades. That sort of thing, when it defines you like that, it’s not easy to just let it go.
Yet, this is what he must do. Five is rational enough to know that if he doesn’t find a new purpose then he’ll lose himself completely, and then what will all this be for? Why survive an apocalypse to get stuck in the real world? Why bring back humanity if you weren’t going to engage?
Back in his father’s house, among the siblings he grew up with, in the body of a child, it shouldn’t be so hard to start over. He can still remember that he was raised to be a superhero. His father things are all still here. The Umbrella Academy is a natural calling for Five, and he is inclined to pursue it.
He’s just not sure how.
At 13, he’d walked out on the family. He knows his siblings left in their own ways and in their own times, but they still spent years together as a honed, active crime fighting unit. It’s not that Five doesn’t have the skills or resources to be a part of that, but he’s like a dissonant note in a well rehearsed symphony. It had been his role to spearhead saving humanity, but if the Umbrella Academy is going to be a thing again, he’s going to need the support, guidance and leadership of their Number One.
In other words, he needs Luther’s help.
Help unearthing Dad’s materials. Help starting up new training regimens. Help motivating the family. Help orchestrating law enforcement criteria. Help that Luther, most decidedly, will give him.
But that’s a slight problem.
To get the help, it has become painfully clear to Five that he’s got to ask.
His siblings are still preoccupied with their success and are working to reclaim their lives. Allison is sorting out her custody agreement. Diego is clearing up his legal woes. Luther is coming to terms with his father sending him to the moon for no reason. Klaus is trying to stay sober. Ben is trying to remain corporeal. And Vanya is contending with a lifetime of lies and a power she barely knows how to control while grappling with the knowledge that she has the power to destroy the world all by herself.
Five gets it; that’s a lot of shit for all of them. He can’t expect them to be thinking about the Umbrella Academy just yet, even if that’s what he needs.
He wants.
Asking, however, is weird.
It’s strange and vulnerable. It gives people the chance to say no.
There is an obvious solution, of course.
Just don’t ask.
He’s a smart man. A trained assassin. A tried and true survivalist. He knows there are other ways to get what he wants that don’t involve any requests whatsoever. All you have to do is be creative. Be smart.
Be better.
Be everything.
He finds Luther in the kitchen, eating breakfast. It’s a bit funny, his oversized frame in one of the small chairs, hunched over a bowl of cereal with marshmallows that is clearly marketed toward children. Five should most feel guilty; Luther, for all his brute strength, really is an easy mark.
There’s no telling why, then, Five sits down across from him with a scowl and opens with a threat.
“If you don’t get something going, I’m going to have to kick your ass,” he says.
Admittedly, he hasn’t really thought this through. If anything, he’s going with his instincts, and for some reasons, all his instincts are innately confrontational and prone toward extreme physical violence. It’d actually be an interesting matchup, him and Luther, and there’s part of Five that would like to explore it, but that’s not really what he’s down here to do.
Luther, spoon full of cereal, looks up at Five, perplexed. “What?”
An apology would be easy enough, but Five’s started this and he’s going to see it through. He steels himself. “You need to get off your sorry ass and restart the academy,” he says again, more plaintive than before. “You keep talking about it -- you have for weeks -- but there’s been zero progress. The laziness is absolutely unacceptable.”
Luther had been unquestioningly obedient to their old man, but apparently Five doesn’t elicit the same kind of autocratic respect. Instead, Luther looks even more confused. “I’m sorry, but what are you talking about exactly?”
Luther’s genuine confusion only deepens Five’s commitment to this course of action. “You’re being lazy and indulgent,” he says, sharper still. “If you don’t start acting like Number One, I’m going to have to hurt you.”
For his part, Luther’s confusion is turning rapidly to skepticism. Five is vaguely insulted, though he concludes that it is unclear if Luther is dubious over Five’s ability to carry out the threat or the veracity of the threat itself.
Neither one is an acceptable insinuation. “Oh, please,” Five says dismissively. “Just because you’re large doesn’t mean you’re impenetrable. Don’t be so vain as to think you’re the biggest mark I’ve taken on.”
Granted, he might actually be the biggest mark, though not the most vicious. That, Five decides, is a moot point that doesn’t actually distinguish his statement as a lie.
Luther raises his eyebrows. “But I’m your brother.”
“I know,” Five says. “That’s why I’ve tolerated this as long as I have. And I say this because we have an established relationship: you need to get it together. Or I will simply have to kill you and do it myself.”
For another second, Luther still looks confused. Then, he seems to understand. His expression changes, softens somehow, and he nods. “You know, Five,” he says. “If you want the Academy to start up again, you could just ask.”
Five recoils, pushing back his chair noisily and getting to his feet with an indignant huff. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he mutters, cheeks burning as he turns to the door.
“Five,” Luther says as Five rapidly retreats. “Five!”
It’s not a plea, but it might as well be. Sometimes, there’s no much distinction.
Five, however, doesn’t intend on sticking around long enough to find out.
Two.
Luther is difficult about the process, but he does what Five wants. The day after Five threatened him in the kitchen, he started up a training regimen again. Five will not acknowledge this, but he does like it. He enjoys having a little structure in his life again. It keeps him preoccupied and keeps his mind engaged. He’s had fewer flashbacks since they started, and Five feels like this is progress.
It is, however, not enough.
Five comes to this conclusion with some reluctance. He’d like a simple solution to his problem, but he’s still restless and edgy. The mental stimulation helps, but it’s not a comprehensive fix. He may have fewer flashbacks, but he’s still having flashbacks.
Something is still off. It’s subtle, but pervasive, impossible to ignore but elusive to pinpoint. But the growing discontentment is increasingly something he cannot abide.
In short, Five needs more.
Action, as it were, must be taken.
Now, in theory, Five could approach Luther and ask for more.
Except that’s not going to happen.
However, successful his conversation with Luther might have been, it was still humiliating. Five cannot bear the thought of going to him again. His brother would get silly and sentimental. He would think that Five needs help.
Five doesn’t need help for the record.
He just needs the rest of his family to get their acts together.
See, they just need to double down. Luther, with Five’s prodding, has provided a framework, but it’s not fleshed out. The Academy exists, but the roles are ill defined. They need to devote more time, more training, more everything.
He decides, with a fairly straightforward logic, that Diego is the next person to ask. As Number Two, Diego has always wanted to be a leader. If Five appeals to his vanity in this regard, there is no doubt he’ll want to rise to the challenge.
He’s not asking Diego for help, you see.
No, Five’s going to threaten him into doing what’s necessary for the family.
It’s totally different.
Not even remotely similar.
Accordingly, this time he is more subtle in his approach. He’d been rather abrupt with Luther. He’s capable of being deft in his movement. He can be subtle when necessary.
To this end, he sidles in next to Diego in the training room. It’s been only scarcely updated since their youth, so the antiquated exercise bikes usually sit idle while free weights and exercise balls get used to excess. Diego, of course, is lifting a weight that is too heavy for him, as if he thinks his own bulging biceps in the dusty mirror are actually impressive.
Five picks up his own weight and uses it carelessly. “This isn’t sufficient.”
Diego looks up, making a face while he sweat. “What?”
“This,” he says, nodding to the weight and the room around him. “I mean, look at it. The whole thing is pathetic.”
Diego lets the weight go loose and he exhales heavily. “It’s old school, sure, but I mean, it gets the job done.”
“Does it?” Five asks. He raises his eyebrows and wrinkles his nose. “I mean, I don’t want to say anything, but I think we’re losing our edge. You, especially.”
Diego laughs outright. “Have you seen yourself? And have you seen me?”
“I have,” Five says. “And this is about more than physical training. You can lift weights all day long and you’ll still be soft. You haven’t seen actual action yet. This whole training scheme is too neutral. I’ve seen you get softer and softer every day we’ve been back. Nothing like the hard-ass brother who showed up to Dad’s funeral throwing knives.”
“Dude,” Diego says. He looks a little offended. “I’m focused on different stuff now. It’s called self control.”
“It’s called losing your edge,” Five retorts, completely without missing a beat. “When it happens to people at the Commission, they retired. At least, that’s what they tell us. I’m pretty sure they’re just taken out back and executed, erased from the timeline, now that their purpose has been used up and they’ve been deemed totally irrelevant.”
He’s veering close to threat here, but Diego’s smart enough to take it as the insult that it is. “Dude,” he says, sounding a tad on the incredulous side. “I’m not losing my edge. You try to take me out back and make me irrelevant, I’ll put you on your ass.”
Five scoffs, unimpressed. “Whatever,” he says. “Look at you. When was your last job?”
Diego scoffs right back. “We’ve had other priorities. Saving the world, remember?”
“That was weeks ago,” Five says. “What have you done since then.”
Diego’s mouth drops open. “We’ve been doing family shit. Getting to know each other.”
“All while neglecting yourself,” Five says, matter of fact as he nods his head. “It’s a pity. I used to think you were the one sibling who knew what it took to survive.”
This time, Diego laughs because the insults are hitting a little too close to home. “Whatever, man.”
“It’s okay,” Five commiserates with a feigned look of understanding. “We all become weak sooner or later. Someday we’ll all be weak and insufficient. You’re just getting there a lot earlier than I expected, but I’m sure we’ll make it work.”
Diego’s jaw tightens this time. His brotherly deference has been clearly spent. He puts the weight fully on the ground and gets to his feet, looking down at Five. “Say it again,” he says, and his voice rose with the threat now. “Say it to my face this time.”
Five, small as he is, feels no fear. He doesn’t know what fear is here, in this context. He has no idea how to recognize it or how it might manifest. He just knows that he needs more. And he knows that pressing this button will give him more.
Is more better or worse?
Well, Five’s really about to find out. “Okay,” he says, nonchalant as he stares back at Diego undaunted. He doesn’t flinch in the slightest. His nerves have been shot lately, but he’s always good under pressure. “You’re weak and pathetic. You’re becoming a joke, not a superhero. I guess Dad was always right about you.”
Diego looks like he’s got it under control until that last bit.
The jibe about Dad is a low blow.
Five’s crossed the line in the sand.
And all he can think when Diego lunges at him is that it’s about damn time.
Diego is strong but he’s too emotional when he fights. It gives him motivation, but against an opponent that uses a more clinical approach, he’s going to be outdone over time. Five is still not entirely used to be 13, but he’s always been small for his age, and people have generally had a tendency to underestimate him. He’s smart enough to exploit that, and just because Diego is his brother doesn’t mean that he’s exactly going to go easy on him.
Besides, Diego did attack first.
He ducks and rolls Diego over the top of him. Diego parries quickly, back on his feet, and they exchange glancing blow before Five jumps out of the way and to the back. He lands a kick that is not nearly as strong as it could be -- he aims for the legs, not the kneecaps -- and he jumps again to kick at Diego’s front.
Diego, angrier than ever now, lobbies a kick back, and this time, he lands it. Five spirals back, and he doesn’t quite have his wits about him enough to jump. That means he has to field Diego’s advance the old fashion way. Diego, however, in typical form, overplays his hand. When he goes in to finish, Five slips out of range. They spar harmlessly for several more seconds before Five has enough energy left for a jump.
This time, he plants his feet behind Diego and jumps on his back before his brother has a chance to turn around. He goes to constrict the flow of blood to Diego’s brain -- but Diego is well and truly pissed off now. He can’t rip Five clean -- he’s not Luther, after all -- but he slams them both up against the wall. Once and twice and a third time causes Five’s vision to blink out for a second.
He opens his eyes on he’s on the ground. With a smile and a snarl, he yanks Diego’s legs out from under him, sending his brother crashing to the ground with a resounding thud. He’s on top of his brother in a flash, using his weight to pin him down, plucking his knife from his holster and holding it to his neck.
It’s telling, of course, that Diego hasn’t pulled it. It’s how he knows that his brother loves him, even when he’s a total asshole.
Because Five is a total asshole. He knows it; he doesn’t deny it.
Smirking, he turns the knife around and eases his weight off Diego. He offers the knife back to his brother who sits up, accepting it reluctantly. Five gets up, smoothing his coat. “That’s better,” he says. “That’s the kind of training I’m talking about. Should we do this again tomorrow?”
Diego looks incredulous as he puts his knife away. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Five shrugs, nonchalant as he may. “For our second training session,” he says. He’s feeling a little chipper now as he makes his way to the exit. “See you then.”
Asking for help is just words, anyway.
Five’s always been more of a man of action when you get right down to it.
Three.
It should be working.
It really should be.
Five’s got the Academy going again with Luther’s oversight. He’s got training picking up with Diego’s leadership. Five has a purpose; he’s actively engaged.
So what the hell is wrong with him?
If anything, he’s getting worse. The nightmares are waking him up more often. He’s stunted by the flashbacks several times a day. His anxiety is skyrocketing, and he can’t sit still to save his life. He approaches the increase in symptoms as analytically as he can, but when he sits down to lay out the variables, his concentration is too scattered to come to any kind of conclusion.
This, naturally, makes it worse.
He hates a problem he can’t solve.
Hates it.
Normally, he keeps these problems to himself. His siblings have never been particularly inclined toward mathematics, not even Ben, who was the closest one to keep up with him academic pursuits. He generally finds that having to explain his process is boring, and it tends to merely elicit unnecessary concern from his siblings.
Plus, in all his years, he’s learned to work better in silence.
Quiet.
Isolation.
But the numbers aren’t coming together. The variables won’t factor out. He’s doing the math, and then he’s doing it again. He’s checking the answers, but the answers are always the same.
They’re never right.
Nothing is right.
In a house with six other siblings, even if one is technically dead, Five has learned to seek out privacy if he’s going to get the concentration he needs. It is inexplicable, therefore, that he hunkers down at the kitchen table at half past 11. He knows his siblings will be rooting around here soon, and he knows that Allison will be finishing up her morning Skype with Claire, looking for something to eat before the afternoon training sessions. He knows she’s going to come in first, and he knows she’s going to ask what the hell he’s doing.
And yet, once he’s sitting there, he doesn’t bother to move. It’s too much work, he tells himself. He needs a change of scenery. He needs a fresh perspective to jog the stickiness in his brain. He needs to try something different, that’s all.
For the record, it’s not because he actually wants to talk to Allison or anyone else.
That’s a ridiculous notion.
In no way does Five want help.
Not at all.
When Allison comes in, as expected like clockwork, he’s not surprised to see her.
She is surprised to see him. She skirts around the table and opens the fridge to remove some deli meat. “Am I interrupting?” she asks. “I can take this to go--”
She’s already gesturing to the door, and Five feels his heart skip a beat. “No, of course not,” he says quickly. Not too quickly. Just quickly. “It’s a kitchen. You have every right to be here.”
Allison regards him carefully as she puts her sandwich together. “It just looks like you’re busy, is all.”
“Well, I’m trying to do a math equation,” he tells her, as if the papers he’s spread across the table are not entirely self evident.
She finishes her sandwich and nods her head. “All the more reason for me to leave you to it.”
She moves to leave again, and Five’s throat constricts. “Really, that’s not necessary.”
Turning back, she looks skeptical, assessing. Allison is smarter than she lets on, honestly. Smarter than most of his siblings, not always in a straight-up intellectual way, but in her ability to read people. He supposes that’s why she knows how to lie so well: she knows how to tell people what they want to hear. “But I know you like quiet.”
It’s inexplicable to both of them then that Five is protesting quite so much. It flusters him, and he swallows hard to fight against the heat the threatens to rise in his cheeks. “Typically, yes, but I’ve tried quiet,” he reports. He presses his lips together. “It’s not working the way it usually does.”
That’s not a plea; that’s a fact. The difference is critical.
Allison raises her eyebrows, evidently showing something of restraint. “It’s not working?” she asks, not daring to make an assumption.
He supposes this is a sign of respect for his space and privacy, but she’s picking a hell of a time for it. His frustration flares a little more, and he works to keep his temper in check. He sighs. “I just can’t solve it.”
She regards that even more carefully than before. After a moment’s hesitation, she steps back toward the table. “You can’t solve it?” she asks. Casually, carefully, she puts her plate down on the table, and gives the paperwork a cursory glance. It’s a scribbled mess, but she makes no sign that it’s overwhelming to her. “You’ve always been able to solve everything. Maybe it’s an equation that can’t be solved.”
He looks back down at the papers as well, looking at the work he’s pored over. He frowns. “I have to solve it.”
She nods a little more, reserving her judgement. Tentatively, she pulls out a chair and sits across from him. “Anything important?”
He growls a little at that. “Would I be bothering with it if it wasn’t?”
His response isn’t kind, but Allison doesn’t rise to it. “Okay,” she says. “Well, should I be worried?”
It’s not an unreasonable question. Five did come back with the threat of the apocalypse, and he’s developed something of a habit of being a harbinger of bad news since his return. He’s not made a habit of understatement, and even though the apocalypse is over, it occurs to him that he hasn’t acted like it at all.
That is, of course, part of the problem.
The apocalypse is over.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
He swallows. “Yes,” he says. He shrugs. “And no.”
She keeps herself poised but says nothing.
He sighs, somewhat resigned to the explanation he does not wish to give. There’s no way around it now. He’s shown Allison this much. What’s the point of any of it if he doesn’t finish?
“I’ve been mapping our probability of success,” he says.
She tilts her head. “Our success?”
“As the Umbrella Academy,” he says. “I’ve been trying to figure out what comes next for us.”
It’s pretty obvious this is not an answer she has anticipated. She frowns. “But we’ve barely even started,” she says. “I mean, we don’t know what comes next.”
“Exactly,” Five says, and he shifts through the papers, gesturing at a few of the notations. “We’re haphazard, disorganized. At this rate, we’re not likely to come together in any significant fashion. This team we’re trying to build will never come to fruition, and we’ll be entirely ineffective as a crime fighting unit. On our current trajectory, our probability of resurrecting the team as it was intended to function is slim to none, and I can’t figure out what the other options are. I don’t see the future, Allison. I can’t tell what comes next.”
She looks back at the notes, and it’s pretty clear she’s making an effort this time. Coming up with nothing, she shakes her head. “None of us can see the future this time,” she says. “So what’s the big deal?”
He scoffs, absolutely incredulous. “The big deal?” he repeats. “The big deal is that this is our lives, Allison. We need a purpose. We need a focus. We’re lost, wandering, adrift. We run the risk of irrelevancy if we don’t make dramatic course corrections right now.”
She stares at him and blinks. Wetting her lips, she repeats, “Purpose?”
“Yes,” he says, slamming the papers back down on the table. He exhales heavily with an air of desperation he can’t hem in. “We’re going to fail if we don’t start changing things. We’re going to fail miserably.”
Allison is listening to him, at least. She looks back down at his notes, a frown wrinkling her forehead. “So, what, then? We need to focus?”
He seizes upon it, leaning forward with enthusiasm. “We need to train more. We need comprehensive training. We need to plan for contingencies, come up with cooperative plans of attack. We need to hone our powers, play them off each other.”
“Right,” she says. “So, you know, we need to spend more time together.”
He nods, more vigorous now. “For the math,” he says.
“For the math,” she agrees. Then, she bites her lip. “But you know, if we’re sitting here, doing the math, we can’t be together.”
He looks at her, his eyes lifted from the unwieldy equation he’s done and redone half a dozen times this morning. It’s his turn to frown.
“I just mean you’ll have to stop doing the math,” she says. “You know, eat some lunch. Get some rest. That way you can be ready to jumpstart our training this afternoon.”
It’s a suggestion that is practical, targeted and exactly what he wants to hear. He puts down the papers and feels the relief surge through him. “Yes, exactly,” he says. “That would help our odds tremendously.”
She pushes the sandwich toward him. “You want this one? I can make another.”
He hesitates, but then he takes it. “I guess.”
She gets up easily, moving back toward the fridge to take out the ingredients again. “You know, in the future, if you need help -- if you need someone to spend time with -- you only need to ask.”
He glares at her, sandwich in hand. “I’m not asking for help,” he says. “This is the only mathematically prudent course of action.”
She nods, laying out the ingredients and putting them together, piece by piece. “Of course it is.”
Five takes a bite.
Allison makes a sandwich.
The equation isn’t answered, but Five thinks he’s closer than before. Maybe it’s enough.
He swallows hard and hopes like hell it’s enough.
Four.
It’s not enough.
It’s really, horribly, completely not enough.
At all.
That’s the single irrational thought Five can’t shake.
The Umbrella Academy, coming together, saving the world, none of it is close to enough. Five can’t find purpose, he can’t find focus, he can’t find anything.
If anything, things are still getting. The mild improvements after talking to Luther and Diego are long gone now. He’d thought Allison would be able to center things even more, but her maternal approach isn’t providing the boost he needs.
Wants?
He’s not sure the difference.
At any rate, he’s pretty sure it’s an unimportant distinction. The fact is, he’s regressing -- and quickly -- at a pace that actually has him more than a bit unsettled. The flashbacks are getting worse. He’s not sleeping. At this point, he can’t even hold down food. When he sits down to do an equation, he can barely hold a pencil much less focus his eyes long enough to make sense of the numbers and variables. He’s jittery and shaky and his nerves are finally starting to go. He thinks he’s probably a few decades overdue for a nervous breakdown, but the thought of it is still all around terrifying.
He should probably ask for help at this point -- it is a pragmatic solution to avoid his own insanity -- but he’s so far into this that he doesn’t know how. He’s not sure if it’s blind pride or simple stubbornness. Maybe he’s just getting stupid in his old age.
Nonetheless, with his other coping mechanisms failing, Five resorts to the infallible and makes himself a pot of coffee. Warm, hot, fully caffeinated. It’s totally normal for people to drink coffee to make them feel more human.
It may not be totally normal to do it at midnight, but Five figures you can’t get everything right all the time. He’s halfway through the pot when it’s pushing 1 AM, and he would like to attribute the fact that he’s wide awake to the caffeine surging through his bloodstream, but it’s not true. Five’s many things -- a killer, a sell out, a screwup, a selfish bastard -- but he’s decidedly not a liar.
So when Klaus shuffles into the kitchen, Five makes no pretense of any of it. He takes another sip, long and slow for Klaus to see, and stares his brother down until Klaus sits down across from him, somewhat vexed.
“Five?” he asks, like he’s surprised to find him here. Maybe Klaus thinks he’s not real; his brother does spend a lot of time talking to dead people. It’d be an understandable point of confusion. “Why are you here? Drinking coffee? At -- shit -- one AM?”
Klaus is in his pajamas -- a nightgown stolen from Allison, by the looks of it -- and he looks rumpled but hardly rested. Klaus is not known for keeping regular hours. In fact, Five knows his brother rarely sleeps a full night half of the time. He knows Klaus haunts the halls each night, the same way the ghosts haunt him.
Five’s decision to come down here, camp out in the kitchen, long enough for his sleep-deprived brother to find him here is purely coincidental. Five has, in now way, intended this to happen. This is not some kind of staged meeting. It’s not.
No one will ever convince him otherwise.
Or no one will ever get him to confess to anything else.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Five replies, making a show of slurping his coffee again. Because if you’re going to drink coffee at 1 AM, you’re doing to really drink coffee at 1 AM and make no bones about it.
“So you thought you’d go ahead and drink caffeine to see if it helps?” Klaus asks, eyebrows arched in skepticism.
“I like coffee,” Five says, lifting one shoulder to shrug indifferently. It’s amazing to him, strained as he is mentally, that he can pull it off with some alacrity. “If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something I like.”
This much is the truth. Five makes a point of not dabbling in falsehoods. He finds the truth is the best way to circumvent a secret.
Still, Klaus narrows his eyes, taking a seat across from him. “You sure you’re all right?” he asks. “I mean, you look a little...weary.”
Weary is a funny word. Oddly understated and completely incomprehensible given the fact that he’s abjectly losing his damn mind.
Weakness is unacceptable, however. You can survive with weakness, and Five is nothing if not a survivalist.
He shrugs. Deflection is not merely a coping mechanism. It’s a habit he can’t break -- not unless it breaks him first. “It’s just coffee.”
Klaus isn’t the family genius, but he’s pretty perceptive when he’s not lacing himself with drugs. Given that he’s entirely sober these days, Klaus seems keener than he used to. Pursing his lips, Five watches as he takes in the scene again. It’s an interesting tableau, and it’s hard to say what his barely sober brother finds most vexing. It could be that Five is drinking coffee past midnight. It might be that Five’s technically 13 and that drinking this much coffee is stunting his growth.
Klaus fixates on the mug in Five’s hand and seems to be coming to some sort of conclusion. “Huh,” he says finally. He tips his head to the side. “You mind if I have some?”
Five gestures to the coffee machine, still running flush with fresh coffee. “Why not? You’ve given up all other vices; no need to deprive yourself of coffee.”
Klaus gets up again and saunters to the counter. He makes a show of getting down a mug and pouring himself a fresh cup. He dumps a bunch of sugar in it, watering it down with milk before sitting down and taking a noisy sip. He makes a face. “You’re not just drinking coffee at 1 AM,” he observes. “You’re drinking terrible coffee. What the hell did you do to this?”
Five shrugs. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Klaus smacks his lips, holds out his tongue and then seems to brace himself for another drink. He swallows it with obvious effort then says, “So, what’s up?”
He says it real casual, like this is no big deal. Klaus can almost pull that sort of thing off, but Five is feeling defensive.
To be fair, he’s felt defense every day of his life since he was 13 the first time around.
“Nothing,” he says stiffly.
Klaus, now sober, is insufferable in his patience. “This doesn’t seem like nothing.”
Five glares at him. “Well, it doesn’t matter what it seems like,” he returns with clipped syllables. “It just matters what it is. Drinking coffee at 1 AM. Nothing.”
Klaus raises his eyebrows, imploring. “Come on, Five,” he cajoles. “Fiver. Fivey-Five.”
Five’s exhausted and he’s strung out on caffeine and it’s 1 AM and Klaus is really, really annoying. He exhales heavily, takes a drink and swallows it. It does taste like shit. “I don’t know, okay?” he says.
“You don’t know?” Klaus prompts innocently.
The innocence is an act; it’s not real. “Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Klaus wrinkles his nose. “You mean you don’t know what you’re doing drinking coffee at 1 AM?”
Klaus’ patience is insufferable. Five’s is fully spent. “No,” he snaps. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.”
The admission is as raw as it is plain. Five’s not one for guises; he’s not the type to beat around the bush. He likens it to pulling off a bandaid. He’s here, drinking coffee at 1 AM, and there’s no way this night ends without him telling Klaus everything.
Or, as much as Five himself knows.
Frustratingly, now is precisely the time that Klaus doesn’t get it. “You mean with the Umbrella Academy?” he asks. “Because none of us know that. It’s really weird, honestly. This trial and error, coming together and--”
Five puts his coffee mug down and stares at Klaus. “With my life, asshole.”
Klaus stops short, mouth still open. He blinks once and then twice before he closes his mouth and remembers to take a breath. “Oh,” he says, picking up his own mug and taking a sip.
It figures, now Klaus is out of things to say. Five sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair. “I can’t focus anymore,” he admits. “Nothing is falling into place. I don’t know; it’s hard to explain. I just feel--”
His own words run out. The facts are simple, but he’s coming face to face with emotions he hasn’t quite articulated to himself yet. There’s no way to put them out there for Klaus. He’ll make coffee at 1 AM and he’ll get to the point but he doesn’t know what comes next.
That’s the problem, of course.
Five doesn’t know.
Tentatively, across the table, Klaus puts his coffee mug down. “You feel lost?”
Five doesn’t flinch, but just barely. His breath catches in his throat this time, and he can still taste the bitterness of the coffee lingering on his tongue.
Klaus smiles, a little apologetically. “I mean, it wouldn’t be weird,” he says with a disarming shrug. “And it’s not like you’re the only one or something. I mean, I think we’re all a little lost right now -- me especially. Do you know that this is the longest I’ve been sober in my adult life? I have no idea -- absolutely none -- what I’m doing. Every morning I wake up feels like a crap shoot.”
Klaus is being self deprecating, as Klaus is wont to do, but he’s not being dishonest. There’s not even a hint of duplicity, no lie of convenience. Klaus is here, drinking coffee at 1 AM just like he is.
Chewing his lip for a moment, Five figures there’s no way out of this except through. He’s pragmatic about these things. “Okay,” he says. “So what do you do, then?”
Klaus blinks across from him, as if he’s processing the question more than once. “Wait,” he says. “Is this -- are you -- asking for help?”
Five’s defenses flare again, and he picks up his coffee mug, taking a drink protectively as he glowers over the top of the mug. “No,” he says curtly. “I’m just in the kitchen drinking coffee. You’re the one who sat down.”
This is all technically true.
They both know it’s still basically completely a lie.
Klaus isn’t the confrontational type, however. He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Nevermind, then.”
By all accounts, that could be the end of it. Five has asked for nothing, and Klaus should have no compelling reason to oblige what Five has not actually requested. Shifting uncomfortably, Five forces himself to take another drink. He hasn’t noticed before now; it really does taste bad.
He should just ask, he thinks.
All he has to do is ask.
He doesn’t want to; he doesn’t think he can.
He drains the rest of the coffee from his mug and holds it in his mouth until he feels like he might be sick. Then, he forces himself to swallow.
Across from him, Klaus doesn’t need to hear the question.
Because Klaus, in true Klaus form, answers anyway. “I want to quit, you know,” he says, like he’s telling a story. “I mean, I want to quit all the time. I want to go out and find drugs, any drugs, the best drugs, the cheapest drugs, all the drugs. I want to take them all and forget everything so I don’t have to keep trying.”
Five is still holding the empty coffee mug, not sure what else to do.
Klaus continues with a shrug. “Because sometimes I can’t even remember why, you know? Why I’m doing this. Why it matters so much. Because getting high is just so much easier. It’s a hell of a lot more fun,” he says. He laughs a little, fiddling with his mug. “But I don’t know. I made a choice, I think. And it’s not a choice to do anything except believe that what I’m doing now -- we we’re doing now, the Umbrella Academy -- is worth it. Every day’s a fight, trust me. But, I mean, I don’t know. You’re good at fighting, right?”
Five frowns, quizzical. “I guess,” he says. “But what are you fighting for?”
Klaus snorts. “My sanity, most of the time.”
Five looks down.
Klaus flits his hand through the air. “Family, too. Family more. Because sanity -- it comes and goes. Family, though. I think that stays.”
Five looks up again.
Klaus smiles at him. “And you hope it’s enough,” he says. “That’s all. That’s how you do it. But, I mean, you know this, Five. You’re the one who reminded us. You’re the one who spent a lifetime believing it.”
A lifetime.
Another lifetime.
Five exhales, more shakily than before. It could be the caffeine giving him the jitters; it’s not. “Honestly, it was a lot easier then.”
Klaus makes a face, a little perplexed by the notion. “Easier? In the apocalypse? Or as a time traveling assassin?”
Five shrugs. “Both,” he says. “Back then, it was just survival. Plain and simple.”
Klaus is quiet for a moment. He tilts his head. “So what’s different now?”
That’s the question, then. That’s the heart of it.
What’s different now?
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
Maybe it’s just that Five is different and he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know why.
Five just doesn’t know.
He looks at the coffee mug and swallows hard. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Klaus says quietly. “Do you want a refill?”
Five glances up, surprised.
“Of coffee,” Klaus says. He nods to the counter where the pot is percolating. “You got a lot left in there.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing the mug over to Klaus with numb fingers. “Thanks.”
Klaus takes the cup and fills it up. He brings it back, setting the steaming liquid in front of Five again before sitting back down in his place. He takes a sip of his own coffee, watching as Five tentatively took a sip of his own. Sharp, hot and bitter, it burns all the way down his throat. He takes another sip anyway.
“You know,” Klaus says, after several more moments of silence. “You don’t have to drink coffee alone. Not even at 1 AM.”
Five’s not asking for help, and Klaus isn’t offering. This is a simple, practical matter, is all.
Five picks up the mug and wraps his fingers around it. “I will keep that in mind.”
Five.
It’s supposed to be okay.
Five has the Umbrella Academy off the ground. His siblings are training, fully committed to honing their skills in the field. He’s spending significant time with others, and he’s making all the pragmatic efforts involved with starting over.
Therefore, he deduces, it’s supposed to be okay.
It is not, however, okay.
It is not even remotely okay.
Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back in the apocalypse. He can smell it, taste it on his tongue. He can feel his fingers twitch like they’re on the trigger of a gun. He catches himself, factoring out equations about the end of the world, and it takes him several minutes to convince himself that it’s over, it’s done. He’s saved his family; he’s saved the world.
The problem is, at this point, Five’s come to realize that he hasn’t saved himself.
In fact, he hasn’t even contended with the fact that he’s in trouble.
Except now for the fact that he’s positively one hundred percent losing his damn mind.
It’s silly, is what it is. It’s utterly pointless. Five has worked hard to get here. He has made sure he has structure. He has given himself purpose. He has built up his relationship so that he has actual, meaningful companionship.
Why isn’t it enough?
It’s supposed to be enough.
The problem is he has no idea what.
Putting such an inconvenient truth into words is more than awkward. For Five, it’s nothing short of impossible. He may as well just ask for help while he’s at it. It’s not going to happen.
Therefore, his options are limited but decisive.
If he can’t figure out what he needs, then he needs to stop trying. He needs to stop thinking. He needs to stop having the pretense of getting better. Five’s always been better with a mission, so that’s what he’ll do.
The mission.
He considers himself fortunate when the call finally comes in. Luther thinks they’re ready. Diego is ready to move into action. Allison has deemed them fit. Klaus thinks their powers are stable. Even Vanya is ready, albeit tentatively, to go back in the field. Five’s a sleep deprived mess who is short tempered and angry, but it’s not like he’s about to say no to a mission.
An actual mission.
Just what he needs.
It is, of course, messier than they anticipate. It’s more complicated than Luther expects, and Diego is worried about the tactical variations. Allison is rusty in the field, and Klaus is overwhelmed by his powers. Vanya spends most of her time hyperventilating in the car, but that’s fine. It’s just fine.
See, there are bad guys that must be taken out.
There are innocent people who must be brought out of a burning house.
These are simple things, problems with straightforward solutions. Five helps as Luther and Diego disarm the men, and he lets them tie them up to wait for the authorities. Then, he helps Allison and Vanya with the evacuation, before working with Klaus as he channels Ben to identify the rest of the people who may be trapped inside.
There are at least 5 more victims on the upper floors, and Allison coaches the injured to keep breathing while Vanya grips his arm. “Five, be careful,” she pleads.
But Five smirks.
Careful is the last thing on his mind.
This is the most focused he’s felt in days, weeks, months. Hell, years.
“Ben’s upstairs,” Klaus says, shaking with exertion as he holds open his link with the spirit world. “You’ll find him on the second floor landing -- he can direct you from there.”
Five doesn’t need another invitation. He blinks out, and materializes exactly as he’s supposed to. It’s a rush of adrenaline, and he is all but smiling when he finds Ben, right where Klaus says he’ll be. “Two kids, second door to your right,” he says. “Can you take them both?”
“Why not?” Five asks, flashing his way into the room. He scoops up the kids -- both crying -- and channels his own energy. It’s not an easy task to jump through space; it’s a lot harder when you’ve got cargo. But Five’s at his best when he doesn’t have any other options. He’s always been responsive to do or die situations.
Usually he does.
He has no reason to suspect this time will be different.
Still, he’s winded when he gets the kids down. He hands one off to Allison, and Vanya takes the other.
“The far end of the house this time,” Klaus yells at him, his body thrumming from concentration. “Agh, you got to hurry.”
Five doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s better at answer requests than making them, and he balls his fists and splices himself through space. He balks at the smoke when he comes back into existence, and his eyes burn as Ben comes face to face with him. “Old woman. Back bedroom.”
Ben doesn’t ask if he can do it this time.
Maybe he does, but Five doesn’t stick around to find out.
He blinks into the room, grabs the woman and blinks out. He has to make a pitstop on the stairs, gathering his strength to jump again, as the old woman wails at him. He all but drops her, breathing heavily as he materializes on the street again.
“Shit, two more,” Klaus says. He frowns. “The attic?”
Five looks up. The attic is three storeys up. It’s high, and he’s lightheaded. These are not good conditions for continuous jumps, especially not when he’s trying to carry cargo. He reminds himself that do or die is actually and either/or. It leaves the possibility of failure.
Failure, he thinks. As he makes the jump, he lands hard on the ground. Both feet are beneath him, but he reels. He’s in the apocalypse again; the world is burning.
No, he reminds himself. Blinking through the smog, it’s the house that’s burning.
Five’s got to focus. He has to focus.
He inhales thickly through the smoke and shudders as he turns. Ben’s standing there, looking concerned. “Five, you can’t do this--”
“I have to,” he says. “Two more, right?”
“Yeah, already out cold,” Ben says. “A couple--”
Five moves toward them, finding the middle aged couple huddled together near a window that wouldn’t open. He reaches down to pick them up, but the weight of the man makes him stagger.
“Five,” Ben says. “Are you sure about this? There’s still time to bring in the others--”
He shakes his head. He’s not back at Commission headquarters. The Handler doesn’t smirk at him from behind her desk. His grip tightens on the man’s arm and slings up him over his shoulder, almost dwarfed by the weight.
“Five--”
He blinks.
No, he blinks.
He’s on the street corner again. The man falls limply from his grasp. He looks back up.
“Five?” Vanya asks. “Five?”
He blinks again.
The world is burning.
He opens his eyes.
He has to finish the job.
Blindly, he doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do, but he feels his way forward anyway. He finds the woman and picks her up with numb arms. He can’t feel anything anymore. He can’t--
Ben is in front of him, eyes wide. “Five, you’re not okay,” he says. “You need to stop. You need to stop and get out right now before you pass out.”
He says that like he’s worried. Like he thinks Five’s actually going to push himself to his breaking point, work himself into exhaustion, so he can pass out and die in some stupid burning house during some stupid mission.
Funny, he knows that’s a terrible idea, but it sounds like the best idea.
He swallows hard, blinking the soot out of his eyes. “This is what I have to do. It’s all I have,” he says. “It’s the job.”
Ben is dead, but Ben is incredulous. “Five, we’re more than a job,” he says, and he reaches up. His touch is solid, hands on Five’s shoulders. “Five. Do you understand? Are you listening?”
He is, but it’s too late, really. Life is full of points of no return, and Five’s just crossed another one. He’s good at making lines in the sand; he’s even good at living with the consequences of those drastic choices.
He’ll do it again.
Or, maybe preferably, he won’t.
“This is the only thing I know how to do, Ben,” he says, hoisting the woman closer as he musters his strength. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
He blinks.
Falling through the darkness, it’s nice to think that there are endings. Maybe not the end of everything, but the end of something. The end of his questions. The end of his doubts. The end of his flashbacks.
Mostly, the end of him.
He opens his eyes in the glaring sunlight. He drops to his knees, the woman rolling from his grasp onto the ground. His heart flutters in his chest and his eyes burn. Suddenly, Ben is in front of him again.
“Five,” he yells. “Tell me what’s wrong! Tell me!”
Five doesn’t have the words, though.
He never has.
And this time, he doesn’t even have the strength.
Exhausted and spent, Five’s eyes roll up in his head. The words help me are trapped in his throat as the darkness finally, mercifully, swallows him whole.
One Way He Maybe, Sort of, Possibly Does Not.
Five’s never asked for help in his life.
He’s also never given up.
No matter how you slice it, he’s probably due for a first. If you would have told him he would have surrendered his life ahead of his pride, he might have laughed. Then, he probably would have believed you.
Because quitting is easier.
He’s not sure why he didn’t see it earlier. Quitting is the simplest thing in the world. He should have tried it sooner: not trying. Not caring. Giving up.
He knows that if he’d given up before, the world would have ended and his siblings would have died.
But still.
At least, now, now that it’s all done, there’s nothing to lose.
Nothing except himself, that is.
Funny, how it doesn’t seem like that much.
He sleeps, mostly because he can. He’s aware, if only vaguely, of being transferred back to the house. He’s aware of Mom and oxygen treatments, and an IV in his arm. He’s aware that his siblings crowd around him, hovering at his bedside anxiously. It’s like they blame themselves. Like they saw this coming and didn’t do enough to stop them.
Five would tell them that’s ridiculous. He’s made his own terrible choices, but sleeping is easier. Sleeping is better.
He sleeps without memory. He sleeps without flashback. He sleeps without purposes.
It’s just sleep.
Whole, encompassing and consuming. He’d sleep forever, if he could.
Unfortunately, he can’t.
He holds onto it as long as he can, but after several days, he’s aware that he’s recovered. His chest doesn’t hurt; there’s no tightness in his throat. His energy levels are normalizing, and when he closes his eyes, it’s harder and harder to drift off.
Still, he’s a stubborn bastard, and he closes his eyes when his siblings cycle through. He doesn’t reply when Luther tells him how sorry he is, that the Umbrella Academy is waiting for him. He keeps his eyes closed when Diego explains that everyone is still training, hard as they can. He doesn’t respond when Allison promises that they’re all still committed, that there’s no holding back. He sleeps his way through Klaus’ rambling, telling him that they’re together, they’re together for the long haul. He sleeps when Ben hovers, barely coalesced, telling him that it’s okay to rest. It’s just okay.
He can’t find the words to answer them, you see.
Five can’t find the words at all.
Until Vanya shows up.
She’s weepy and scared, and she sits next to him without making a word. This has been hard on her, and she’s not bearing the weight with as much dignity as her siblings. When she holds vigil, Vanya is not like the others. She doesn’t have promises. She doesn’t offer platitudes. But she sits next to him, unyielding in her presence, fingers on the bed, but not quite touching his.
She will listen, he thinks.
He opens his eyes, and she smiles at him. Watery and shaky.
No, he corrects himself. She won’t listen. She’ll hear.
Five’s pride is already forfeit. His life is strung out, and his purpose as been spent. All he has left is a simple, desperate plea.
“Vanya,” he says, gasping through the exhaustion that clings to him. “Please.”
She scoots forward intently. “Please what? Are you hungry? Do you need water? Are you in pain? Should I get Mom?”
He shakes his head, and closes his eyes. His eyes burn and his throat is tight again. It’s nothing to do with exhaustion or smoke inhalation. He opens his eyes again. “No, no,” he says, the two syllables halting. “I just. Please. Help.”
She frowns earnestly. “Help with what, Five?” she asks gently. There’s no judgement. There’s no condescension. There’s just concern.
There’s just hope.
He wets his lips, and when he exhales, he shudders with a sob he can’t acknowledge. “With everything,” he says. He laughs, unable to stop as tears leak from his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I can’t make sense of anything. I’m lost, Vanya. I saved the world. I saved my family. And I lost myself. I can’t do it on my own. Not anymore. I need help. Please, help me.”
The words are shaky, scared and true. Vanya, curling closer to him, scoops up his fingers and folds them in her own. “Five,” she says. “Of course I will.”
She presses her lips to his hand as he chokes on another cry. He can’t stop it; he won’t stop it.
“We all will,” she promises as he starts to cry in earnest now. “All you ever had to do was ask.”
Five’s been asking for help, you see. He’s been asking for it all along, every second of every day since he got back. He’s asked a thousand different ways, practically begging them to realize that he’s as messed up as you can get. He’s survived so much, but he’s done it in silence. The apocalypse took his words, just like it took his pride and security, and those are all things he can’t quite get back. The words are ones he knows, but they don’t form in his mouth anymore. They don’t seem to fit on his tongue.
You could call it fear, maybe. You could say that Five’s afraid. And that’s probably accurate, because Five’s survived too much shit not to be scared.
But now that the words are out, now that they’ve been realized, now that his vulnerability is laid bare, Five discovers the unexpected freedom. He’s never been one to relish his own weaknesses, but there is something innately reassuring in knowing that they can be so readily accepted. Really, no one likes asking for help, but Five knows better than anyone in the world that it’s worse when there’s no one there to answer.
That’s the real fear, then. Not exposing his own vulnerability. But the idea that his pleas will go unheard, lost in the vacuum of time.
Because yes, he does need help. He needs help with his plans and the missions. He needs help with the Commission and with the legal complications of being 13 again. He needs help learning how to move on without Delores and how to interact with normal people at all. He needs help with his nightmares, his irregular eating habits, his tendency to scribble on any surface he sees -- all of it.
The bottom line is this: Five needs help.
Asking for help sucks.
But getting an answer is worth it.
A/N: Set post S1 with the assumption that they fix everything and end up happily back in the mansion. Fill for my asking for help square in hc_bingo. Unbeta’ed because that’s just how things are.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: The Umbrella Academy is a natural calling for Five, and he is inclined to pursue it. He’s just not sure how.
-o-
One.
See, this is the thing. The apocalypse? That big, scary, horrible traumatic event? That nightmare of a place that stole Five’s pride, childhood, security and sanity in one fell swoop?
That’s over now. Not over. The apocalypse hasn’t happened, and it isn’t going to happen, not any time soon, not on Five’s watch.
Therefore, by all discernible logic, things are fine now.
Really, that’s an understatement.
Things are so much more than fine.
Things are so far past fine that Five doesn’t actually remember what sort of descriptors are appropriate. Five’s lived his life in stages of disaster, so this? This whole fine thing?
It doesn’t even make sense.
Because it’s not just that the end of the world has been successfully avoided. It’s not even that Five has somehow managed to save the whole of humanity for years, decades, centuries to come. It’s that he’s home. He’s well and truly home. He’s with his family, and he’s safe and secure and things haven’t been this good since Five was 13 the first time around. In truth, Five wants for nothing.
And yet, Five wants.
In some ways, Five knows it’s human nature. Human beings, by their very essence, are not prone to satisfaction -- and Five much less so than most. He carries with him an innate restlessness. He does not consider this greed or vanity, but a deep-rooted intellectual curiosity. An insatiable need to push himself further.
It is the reason he walked out of the house the first time he was 13, trying to prove one point and validating the counterpoint. His ability to understand on a rational level why he yearns is perhaps his way of making sense of the desire, but it hardly serves as the primary point.
The point.
The point is, Five has to determine two weeks after saving his family and the world, is that Five wants.
To be fair, this is not unexpected. He’s read about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. After decades worrying about his next meal and his physical safety, it’s a bit of a shock to start looking at things like love, belonging and esteem. Self actualization seems to be within his reach for the first time, well, ever. It is only natural to want to reach for those loftier ambitions.
The problem is he has no idea how.
At all.
He doesn’t know how to fill his time. He doesn’t know how to define himself. He’s directionless, grounded only by a want that he has no idea how to fill. Without the apocalypse, he simply has too much time on his hands. Klaus calls it an addiction, but Klaus is a moron, and Five is confident that they don’t have AA meetings for people obsessed with the end of the world. Besides, it’s not his fault that he used a fundamental desire to save his family as a means of surviving a hellish landscape unsuited to human life. It had helped him survived for decades. That sort of thing, when it defines you like that, it’s not easy to just let it go.
Yet, this is what he must do. Five is rational enough to know that if he doesn’t find a new purpose then he’ll lose himself completely, and then what will all this be for? Why survive an apocalypse to get stuck in the real world? Why bring back humanity if you weren’t going to engage?
Back in his father’s house, among the siblings he grew up with, in the body of a child, it shouldn’t be so hard to start over. He can still remember that he was raised to be a superhero. His father things are all still here. The Umbrella Academy is a natural calling for Five, and he is inclined to pursue it.
He’s just not sure how.
At 13, he’d walked out on the family. He knows his siblings left in their own ways and in their own times, but they still spent years together as a honed, active crime fighting unit. It’s not that Five doesn’t have the skills or resources to be a part of that, but he’s like a dissonant note in a well rehearsed symphony. It had been his role to spearhead saving humanity, but if the Umbrella Academy is going to be a thing again, he’s going to need the support, guidance and leadership of their Number One.
In other words, he needs Luther’s help.
Help unearthing Dad’s materials. Help starting up new training regimens. Help motivating the family. Help orchestrating law enforcement criteria. Help that Luther, most decidedly, will give him.
But that’s a slight problem.
To get the help, it has become painfully clear to Five that he’s got to ask.
His siblings are still preoccupied with their success and are working to reclaim their lives. Allison is sorting out her custody agreement. Diego is clearing up his legal woes. Luther is coming to terms with his father sending him to the moon for no reason. Klaus is trying to stay sober. Ben is trying to remain corporeal. And Vanya is contending with a lifetime of lies and a power she barely knows how to control while grappling with the knowledge that she has the power to destroy the world all by herself.
Five gets it; that’s a lot of shit for all of them. He can’t expect them to be thinking about the Umbrella Academy just yet, even if that’s what he needs.
He wants.
Asking, however, is weird.
It’s strange and vulnerable. It gives people the chance to say no.
There is an obvious solution, of course.
Just don’t ask.
He’s a smart man. A trained assassin. A tried and true survivalist. He knows there are other ways to get what he wants that don’t involve any requests whatsoever. All you have to do is be creative. Be smart.
Be better.
Be everything.
He finds Luther in the kitchen, eating breakfast. It’s a bit funny, his oversized frame in one of the small chairs, hunched over a bowl of cereal with marshmallows that is clearly marketed toward children. Five should most feel guilty; Luther, for all his brute strength, really is an easy mark.
There’s no telling why, then, Five sits down across from him with a scowl and opens with a threat.
“If you don’t get something going, I’m going to have to kick your ass,” he says.
Admittedly, he hasn’t really thought this through. If anything, he’s going with his instincts, and for some reasons, all his instincts are innately confrontational and prone toward extreme physical violence. It’d actually be an interesting matchup, him and Luther, and there’s part of Five that would like to explore it, but that’s not really what he’s down here to do.
Luther, spoon full of cereal, looks up at Five, perplexed. “What?”
An apology would be easy enough, but Five’s started this and he’s going to see it through. He steels himself. “You need to get off your sorry ass and restart the academy,” he says again, more plaintive than before. “You keep talking about it -- you have for weeks -- but there’s been zero progress. The laziness is absolutely unacceptable.”
Luther had been unquestioningly obedient to their old man, but apparently Five doesn’t elicit the same kind of autocratic respect. Instead, Luther looks even more confused. “I’m sorry, but what are you talking about exactly?”
Luther’s genuine confusion only deepens Five’s commitment to this course of action. “You’re being lazy and indulgent,” he says, sharper still. “If you don’t start acting like Number One, I’m going to have to hurt you.”
For his part, Luther’s confusion is turning rapidly to skepticism. Five is vaguely insulted, though he concludes that it is unclear if Luther is dubious over Five’s ability to carry out the threat or the veracity of the threat itself.
Neither one is an acceptable insinuation. “Oh, please,” Five says dismissively. “Just because you’re large doesn’t mean you’re impenetrable. Don’t be so vain as to think you’re the biggest mark I’ve taken on.”
Granted, he might actually be the biggest mark, though not the most vicious. That, Five decides, is a moot point that doesn’t actually distinguish his statement as a lie.
Luther raises his eyebrows. “But I’m your brother.”
“I know,” Five says. “That’s why I’ve tolerated this as long as I have. And I say this because we have an established relationship: you need to get it together. Or I will simply have to kill you and do it myself.”
For another second, Luther still looks confused. Then, he seems to understand. His expression changes, softens somehow, and he nods. “You know, Five,” he says. “If you want the Academy to start up again, you could just ask.”
Five recoils, pushing back his chair noisily and getting to his feet with an indignant huff. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he mutters, cheeks burning as he turns to the door.
“Five,” Luther says as Five rapidly retreats. “Five!”
It’s not a plea, but it might as well be. Sometimes, there’s no much distinction.
Five, however, doesn’t intend on sticking around long enough to find out.
Two.
Luther is difficult about the process, but he does what Five wants. The day after Five threatened him in the kitchen, he started up a training regimen again. Five will not acknowledge this, but he does like it. He enjoys having a little structure in his life again. It keeps him preoccupied and keeps his mind engaged. He’s had fewer flashbacks since they started, and Five feels like this is progress.
It is, however, not enough.
Five comes to this conclusion with some reluctance. He’d like a simple solution to his problem, but he’s still restless and edgy. The mental stimulation helps, but it’s not a comprehensive fix. He may have fewer flashbacks, but he’s still having flashbacks.
Something is still off. It’s subtle, but pervasive, impossible to ignore but elusive to pinpoint. But the growing discontentment is increasingly something he cannot abide.
In short, Five needs more.
Action, as it were, must be taken.
Now, in theory, Five could approach Luther and ask for more.
Except that’s not going to happen.
However, successful his conversation with Luther might have been, it was still humiliating. Five cannot bear the thought of going to him again. His brother would get silly and sentimental. He would think that Five needs help.
Five doesn’t need help for the record.
He just needs the rest of his family to get their acts together.
See, they just need to double down. Luther, with Five’s prodding, has provided a framework, but it’s not fleshed out. The Academy exists, but the roles are ill defined. They need to devote more time, more training, more everything.
He decides, with a fairly straightforward logic, that Diego is the next person to ask. As Number Two, Diego has always wanted to be a leader. If Five appeals to his vanity in this regard, there is no doubt he’ll want to rise to the challenge.
He’s not asking Diego for help, you see.
No, Five’s going to threaten him into doing what’s necessary for the family.
It’s totally different.
Not even remotely similar.
Accordingly, this time he is more subtle in his approach. He’d been rather abrupt with Luther. He’s capable of being deft in his movement. He can be subtle when necessary.
To this end, he sidles in next to Diego in the training room. It’s been only scarcely updated since their youth, so the antiquated exercise bikes usually sit idle while free weights and exercise balls get used to excess. Diego, of course, is lifting a weight that is too heavy for him, as if he thinks his own bulging biceps in the dusty mirror are actually impressive.
Five picks up his own weight and uses it carelessly. “This isn’t sufficient.”
Diego looks up, making a face while he sweat. “What?”
“This,” he says, nodding to the weight and the room around him. “I mean, look at it. The whole thing is pathetic.”
Diego lets the weight go loose and he exhales heavily. “It’s old school, sure, but I mean, it gets the job done.”
“Does it?” Five asks. He raises his eyebrows and wrinkles his nose. “I mean, I don’t want to say anything, but I think we’re losing our edge. You, especially.”
Diego laughs outright. “Have you seen yourself? And have you seen me?”
“I have,” Five says. “And this is about more than physical training. You can lift weights all day long and you’ll still be soft. You haven’t seen actual action yet. This whole training scheme is too neutral. I’ve seen you get softer and softer every day we’ve been back. Nothing like the hard-ass brother who showed up to Dad’s funeral throwing knives.”
“Dude,” Diego says. He looks a little offended. “I’m focused on different stuff now. It’s called self control.”
“It’s called losing your edge,” Five retorts, completely without missing a beat. “When it happens to people at the Commission, they retired. At least, that’s what they tell us. I’m pretty sure they’re just taken out back and executed, erased from the timeline, now that their purpose has been used up and they’ve been deemed totally irrelevant.”
He’s veering close to threat here, but Diego’s smart enough to take it as the insult that it is. “Dude,” he says, sounding a tad on the incredulous side. “I’m not losing my edge. You try to take me out back and make me irrelevant, I’ll put you on your ass.”
Five scoffs, unimpressed. “Whatever,” he says. “Look at you. When was your last job?”
Diego scoffs right back. “We’ve had other priorities. Saving the world, remember?”
“That was weeks ago,” Five says. “What have you done since then.”
Diego’s mouth drops open. “We’ve been doing family shit. Getting to know each other.”
“All while neglecting yourself,” Five says, matter of fact as he nods his head. “It’s a pity. I used to think you were the one sibling who knew what it took to survive.”
This time, Diego laughs because the insults are hitting a little too close to home. “Whatever, man.”
“It’s okay,” Five commiserates with a feigned look of understanding. “We all become weak sooner or later. Someday we’ll all be weak and insufficient. You’re just getting there a lot earlier than I expected, but I’m sure we’ll make it work.”
Diego’s jaw tightens this time. His brotherly deference has been clearly spent. He puts the weight fully on the ground and gets to his feet, looking down at Five. “Say it again,” he says, and his voice rose with the threat now. “Say it to my face this time.”
Five, small as he is, feels no fear. He doesn’t know what fear is here, in this context. He has no idea how to recognize it or how it might manifest. He just knows that he needs more. And he knows that pressing this button will give him more.
Is more better or worse?
Well, Five’s really about to find out. “Okay,” he says, nonchalant as he stares back at Diego undaunted. He doesn’t flinch in the slightest. His nerves have been shot lately, but he’s always good under pressure. “You’re weak and pathetic. You’re becoming a joke, not a superhero. I guess Dad was always right about you.”
Diego looks like he’s got it under control until that last bit.
The jibe about Dad is a low blow.
Five’s crossed the line in the sand.
And all he can think when Diego lunges at him is that it’s about damn time.
Diego is strong but he’s too emotional when he fights. It gives him motivation, but against an opponent that uses a more clinical approach, he’s going to be outdone over time. Five is still not entirely used to be 13, but he’s always been small for his age, and people have generally had a tendency to underestimate him. He’s smart enough to exploit that, and just because Diego is his brother doesn’t mean that he’s exactly going to go easy on him.
Besides, Diego did attack first.
He ducks and rolls Diego over the top of him. Diego parries quickly, back on his feet, and they exchange glancing blow before Five jumps out of the way and to the back. He lands a kick that is not nearly as strong as it could be -- he aims for the legs, not the kneecaps -- and he jumps again to kick at Diego’s front.
Diego, angrier than ever now, lobbies a kick back, and this time, he lands it. Five spirals back, and he doesn’t quite have his wits about him enough to jump. That means he has to field Diego’s advance the old fashion way. Diego, however, in typical form, overplays his hand. When he goes in to finish, Five slips out of range. They spar harmlessly for several more seconds before Five has enough energy left for a jump.
This time, he plants his feet behind Diego and jumps on his back before his brother has a chance to turn around. He goes to constrict the flow of blood to Diego’s brain -- but Diego is well and truly pissed off now. He can’t rip Five clean -- he’s not Luther, after all -- but he slams them both up against the wall. Once and twice and a third time causes Five’s vision to blink out for a second.
He opens his eyes on he’s on the ground. With a smile and a snarl, he yanks Diego’s legs out from under him, sending his brother crashing to the ground with a resounding thud. He’s on top of his brother in a flash, using his weight to pin him down, plucking his knife from his holster and holding it to his neck.
It’s telling, of course, that Diego hasn’t pulled it. It’s how he knows that his brother loves him, even when he’s a total asshole.
Because Five is a total asshole. He knows it; he doesn’t deny it.
Smirking, he turns the knife around and eases his weight off Diego. He offers the knife back to his brother who sits up, accepting it reluctantly. Five gets up, smoothing his coat. “That’s better,” he says. “That’s the kind of training I’m talking about. Should we do this again tomorrow?”
Diego looks incredulous as he puts his knife away. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Five shrugs, nonchalant as he may. “For our second training session,” he says. He’s feeling a little chipper now as he makes his way to the exit. “See you then.”
Asking for help is just words, anyway.
Five’s always been more of a man of action when you get right down to it.
Three.
It should be working.
It really should be.
Five’s got the Academy going again with Luther’s oversight. He’s got training picking up with Diego’s leadership. Five has a purpose; he’s actively engaged.
So what the hell is wrong with him?
If anything, he’s getting worse. The nightmares are waking him up more often. He’s stunted by the flashbacks several times a day. His anxiety is skyrocketing, and he can’t sit still to save his life. He approaches the increase in symptoms as analytically as he can, but when he sits down to lay out the variables, his concentration is too scattered to come to any kind of conclusion.
This, naturally, makes it worse.
He hates a problem he can’t solve.
Hates it.
Normally, he keeps these problems to himself. His siblings have never been particularly inclined toward mathematics, not even Ben, who was the closest one to keep up with him academic pursuits. He generally finds that having to explain his process is boring, and it tends to merely elicit unnecessary concern from his siblings.
Plus, in all his years, he’s learned to work better in silence.
Quiet.
Isolation.
But the numbers aren’t coming together. The variables won’t factor out. He’s doing the math, and then he’s doing it again. He’s checking the answers, but the answers are always the same.
They’re never right.
Nothing is right.
In a house with six other siblings, even if one is technically dead, Five has learned to seek out privacy if he’s going to get the concentration he needs. It is inexplicable, therefore, that he hunkers down at the kitchen table at half past 11. He knows his siblings will be rooting around here soon, and he knows that Allison will be finishing up her morning Skype with Claire, looking for something to eat before the afternoon training sessions. He knows she’s going to come in first, and he knows she’s going to ask what the hell he’s doing.
And yet, once he’s sitting there, he doesn’t bother to move. It’s too much work, he tells himself. He needs a change of scenery. He needs a fresh perspective to jog the stickiness in his brain. He needs to try something different, that’s all.
For the record, it’s not because he actually wants to talk to Allison or anyone else.
That’s a ridiculous notion.
In no way does Five want help.
Not at all.
When Allison comes in, as expected like clockwork, he’s not surprised to see her.
She is surprised to see him. She skirts around the table and opens the fridge to remove some deli meat. “Am I interrupting?” she asks. “I can take this to go--”
She’s already gesturing to the door, and Five feels his heart skip a beat. “No, of course not,” he says quickly. Not too quickly. Just quickly. “It’s a kitchen. You have every right to be here.”
Allison regards him carefully as she puts her sandwich together. “It just looks like you’re busy, is all.”
“Well, I’m trying to do a math equation,” he tells her, as if the papers he’s spread across the table are not entirely self evident.
She finishes her sandwich and nods her head. “All the more reason for me to leave you to it.”
She moves to leave again, and Five’s throat constricts. “Really, that’s not necessary.”
Turning back, she looks skeptical, assessing. Allison is smarter than she lets on, honestly. Smarter than most of his siblings, not always in a straight-up intellectual way, but in her ability to read people. He supposes that’s why she knows how to lie so well: she knows how to tell people what they want to hear. “But I know you like quiet.”
It’s inexplicable to both of them then that Five is protesting quite so much. It flusters him, and he swallows hard to fight against the heat the threatens to rise in his cheeks. “Typically, yes, but I’ve tried quiet,” he reports. He presses his lips together. “It’s not working the way it usually does.”
That’s not a plea; that’s a fact. The difference is critical.
Allison raises her eyebrows, evidently showing something of restraint. “It’s not working?” she asks, not daring to make an assumption.
He supposes this is a sign of respect for his space and privacy, but she’s picking a hell of a time for it. His frustration flares a little more, and he works to keep his temper in check. He sighs. “I just can’t solve it.”
She regards that even more carefully than before. After a moment’s hesitation, she steps back toward the table. “You can’t solve it?” she asks. Casually, carefully, she puts her plate down on the table, and gives the paperwork a cursory glance. It’s a scribbled mess, but she makes no sign that it’s overwhelming to her. “You’ve always been able to solve everything. Maybe it’s an equation that can’t be solved.”
He looks back down at the papers as well, looking at the work he’s pored over. He frowns. “I have to solve it.”
She nods a little more, reserving her judgement. Tentatively, she pulls out a chair and sits across from him. “Anything important?”
He growls a little at that. “Would I be bothering with it if it wasn’t?”
His response isn’t kind, but Allison doesn’t rise to it. “Okay,” she says. “Well, should I be worried?”
It’s not an unreasonable question. Five did come back with the threat of the apocalypse, and he’s developed something of a habit of being a harbinger of bad news since his return. He’s not made a habit of understatement, and even though the apocalypse is over, it occurs to him that he hasn’t acted like it at all.
That is, of course, part of the problem.
The apocalypse is over.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
He swallows. “Yes,” he says. He shrugs. “And no.”
She keeps herself poised but says nothing.
He sighs, somewhat resigned to the explanation he does not wish to give. There’s no way around it now. He’s shown Allison this much. What’s the point of any of it if he doesn’t finish?
“I’ve been mapping our probability of success,” he says.
She tilts her head. “Our success?”
“As the Umbrella Academy,” he says. “I’ve been trying to figure out what comes next for us.”
It’s pretty obvious this is not an answer she has anticipated. She frowns. “But we’ve barely even started,” she says. “I mean, we don’t know what comes next.”
“Exactly,” Five says, and he shifts through the papers, gesturing at a few of the notations. “We’re haphazard, disorganized. At this rate, we’re not likely to come together in any significant fashion. This team we’re trying to build will never come to fruition, and we’ll be entirely ineffective as a crime fighting unit. On our current trajectory, our probability of resurrecting the team as it was intended to function is slim to none, and I can’t figure out what the other options are. I don’t see the future, Allison. I can’t tell what comes next.”
She looks back at the notes, and it’s pretty clear she’s making an effort this time. Coming up with nothing, she shakes her head. “None of us can see the future this time,” she says. “So what’s the big deal?”
He scoffs, absolutely incredulous. “The big deal?” he repeats. “The big deal is that this is our lives, Allison. We need a purpose. We need a focus. We’re lost, wandering, adrift. We run the risk of irrelevancy if we don’t make dramatic course corrections right now.”
She stares at him and blinks. Wetting her lips, she repeats, “Purpose?”
“Yes,” he says, slamming the papers back down on the table. He exhales heavily with an air of desperation he can’t hem in. “We’re going to fail if we don’t start changing things. We’re going to fail miserably.”
Allison is listening to him, at least. She looks back down at his notes, a frown wrinkling her forehead. “So, what, then? We need to focus?”
He seizes upon it, leaning forward with enthusiasm. “We need to train more. We need comprehensive training. We need to plan for contingencies, come up with cooperative plans of attack. We need to hone our powers, play them off each other.”
“Right,” she says. “So, you know, we need to spend more time together.”
He nods, more vigorous now. “For the math,” he says.
“For the math,” she agrees. Then, she bites her lip. “But you know, if we’re sitting here, doing the math, we can’t be together.”
He looks at her, his eyes lifted from the unwieldy equation he’s done and redone half a dozen times this morning. It’s his turn to frown.
“I just mean you’ll have to stop doing the math,” she says. “You know, eat some lunch. Get some rest. That way you can be ready to jumpstart our training this afternoon.”
It’s a suggestion that is practical, targeted and exactly what he wants to hear. He puts down the papers and feels the relief surge through him. “Yes, exactly,” he says. “That would help our odds tremendously.”
She pushes the sandwich toward him. “You want this one? I can make another.”
He hesitates, but then he takes it. “I guess.”
She gets up easily, moving back toward the fridge to take out the ingredients again. “You know, in the future, if you need help -- if you need someone to spend time with -- you only need to ask.”
He glares at her, sandwich in hand. “I’m not asking for help,” he says. “This is the only mathematically prudent course of action.”
She nods, laying out the ingredients and putting them together, piece by piece. “Of course it is.”
Five takes a bite.
Allison makes a sandwich.
The equation isn’t answered, but Five thinks he’s closer than before. Maybe it’s enough.
He swallows hard and hopes like hell it’s enough.
Four.
It’s not enough.
It’s really, horribly, completely not enough.
At all.
That’s the single irrational thought Five can’t shake.
The Umbrella Academy, coming together, saving the world, none of it is close to enough. Five can’t find purpose, he can’t find focus, he can’t find anything.
If anything, things are still getting. The mild improvements after talking to Luther and Diego are long gone now. He’d thought Allison would be able to center things even more, but her maternal approach isn’t providing the boost he needs.
Wants?
He’s not sure the difference.
At any rate, he’s pretty sure it’s an unimportant distinction. The fact is, he’s regressing -- and quickly -- at a pace that actually has him more than a bit unsettled. The flashbacks are getting worse. He’s not sleeping. At this point, he can’t even hold down food. When he sits down to do an equation, he can barely hold a pencil much less focus his eyes long enough to make sense of the numbers and variables. He’s jittery and shaky and his nerves are finally starting to go. He thinks he’s probably a few decades overdue for a nervous breakdown, but the thought of it is still all around terrifying.
He should probably ask for help at this point -- it is a pragmatic solution to avoid his own insanity -- but he’s so far into this that he doesn’t know how. He’s not sure if it’s blind pride or simple stubbornness. Maybe he’s just getting stupid in his old age.
Nonetheless, with his other coping mechanisms failing, Five resorts to the infallible and makes himself a pot of coffee. Warm, hot, fully caffeinated. It’s totally normal for people to drink coffee to make them feel more human.
It may not be totally normal to do it at midnight, but Five figures you can’t get everything right all the time. He’s halfway through the pot when it’s pushing 1 AM, and he would like to attribute the fact that he’s wide awake to the caffeine surging through his bloodstream, but it’s not true. Five’s many things -- a killer, a sell out, a screwup, a selfish bastard -- but he’s decidedly not a liar.
So when Klaus shuffles into the kitchen, Five makes no pretense of any of it. He takes another sip, long and slow for Klaus to see, and stares his brother down until Klaus sits down across from him, somewhat vexed.
“Five?” he asks, like he’s surprised to find him here. Maybe Klaus thinks he’s not real; his brother does spend a lot of time talking to dead people. It’d be an understandable point of confusion. “Why are you here? Drinking coffee? At -- shit -- one AM?”
Klaus is in his pajamas -- a nightgown stolen from Allison, by the looks of it -- and he looks rumpled but hardly rested. Klaus is not known for keeping regular hours. In fact, Five knows his brother rarely sleeps a full night half of the time. He knows Klaus haunts the halls each night, the same way the ghosts haunt him.
Five’s decision to come down here, camp out in the kitchen, long enough for his sleep-deprived brother to find him here is purely coincidental. Five has, in now way, intended this to happen. This is not some kind of staged meeting. It’s not.
No one will ever convince him otherwise.
Or no one will ever get him to confess to anything else.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Five replies, making a show of slurping his coffee again. Because if you’re going to drink coffee at 1 AM, you’re doing to really drink coffee at 1 AM and make no bones about it.
“So you thought you’d go ahead and drink caffeine to see if it helps?” Klaus asks, eyebrows arched in skepticism.
“I like coffee,” Five says, lifting one shoulder to shrug indifferently. It’s amazing to him, strained as he is mentally, that he can pull it off with some alacrity. “If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something I like.”
This much is the truth. Five makes a point of not dabbling in falsehoods. He finds the truth is the best way to circumvent a secret.
Still, Klaus narrows his eyes, taking a seat across from him. “You sure you’re all right?” he asks. “I mean, you look a little...weary.”
Weary is a funny word. Oddly understated and completely incomprehensible given the fact that he’s abjectly losing his damn mind.
Weakness is unacceptable, however. You can survive with weakness, and Five is nothing if not a survivalist.
He shrugs. Deflection is not merely a coping mechanism. It’s a habit he can’t break -- not unless it breaks him first. “It’s just coffee.”
Klaus isn’t the family genius, but he’s pretty perceptive when he’s not lacing himself with drugs. Given that he’s entirely sober these days, Klaus seems keener than he used to. Pursing his lips, Five watches as he takes in the scene again. It’s an interesting tableau, and it’s hard to say what his barely sober brother finds most vexing. It could be that Five is drinking coffee past midnight. It might be that Five’s technically 13 and that drinking this much coffee is stunting his growth.
Klaus fixates on the mug in Five’s hand and seems to be coming to some sort of conclusion. “Huh,” he says finally. He tips his head to the side. “You mind if I have some?”
Five gestures to the coffee machine, still running flush with fresh coffee. “Why not? You’ve given up all other vices; no need to deprive yourself of coffee.”
Klaus gets up again and saunters to the counter. He makes a show of getting down a mug and pouring himself a fresh cup. He dumps a bunch of sugar in it, watering it down with milk before sitting down and taking a noisy sip. He makes a face. “You’re not just drinking coffee at 1 AM,” he observes. “You’re drinking terrible coffee. What the hell did you do to this?”
Five shrugs. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Klaus smacks his lips, holds out his tongue and then seems to brace himself for another drink. He swallows it with obvious effort then says, “So, what’s up?”
He says it real casual, like this is no big deal. Klaus can almost pull that sort of thing off, but Five is feeling defensive.
To be fair, he’s felt defense every day of his life since he was 13 the first time around.
“Nothing,” he says stiffly.
Klaus, now sober, is insufferable in his patience. “This doesn’t seem like nothing.”
Five glares at him. “Well, it doesn’t matter what it seems like,” he returns with clipped syllables. “It just matters what it is. Drinking coffee at 1 AM. Nothing.”
Klaus raises his eyebrows, imploring. “Come on, Five,” he cajoles. “Fiver. Fivey-Five.”
Five’s exhausted and he’s strung out on caffeine and it’s 1 AM and Klaus is really, really annoying. He exhales heavily, takes a drink and swallows it. It does taste like shit. “I don’t know, okay?” he says.
“You don’t know?” Klaus prompts innocently.
The innocence is an act; it’s not real. “Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Klaus wrinkles his nose. “You mean you don’t know what you’re doing drinking coffee at 1 AM?”
Klaus’ patience is insufferable. Five’s is fully spent. “No,” he snaps. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.”
The admission is as raw as it is plain. Five’s not one for guises; he’s not the type to beat around the bush. He likens it to pulling off a bandaid. He’s here, drinking coffee at 1 AM, and there’s no way this night ends without him telling Klaus everything.
Or, as much as Five himself knows.
Frustratingly, now is precisely the time that Klaus doesn’t get it. “You mean with the Umbrella Academy?” he asks. “Because none of us know that. It’s really weird, honestly. This trial and error, coming together and--”
Five puts his coffee mug down and stares at Klaus. “With my life, asshole.”
Klaus stops short, mouth still open. He blinks once and then twice before he closes his mouth and remembers to take a breath. “Oh,” he says, picking up his own mug and taking a sip.
It figures, now Klaus is out of things to say. Five sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair. “I can’t focus anymore,” he admits. “Nothing is falling into place. I don’t know; it’s hard to explain. I just feel--”
His own words run out. The facts are simple, but he’s coming face to face with emotions he hasn’t quite articulated to himself yet. There’s no way to put them out there for Klaus. He’ll make coffee at 1 AM and he’ll get to the point but he doesn’t know what comes next.
That’s the problem, of course.
Five doesn’t know.
Tentatively, across the table, Klaus puts his coffee mug down. “You feel lost?”
Five doesn’t flinch, but just barely. His breath catches in his throat this time, and he can still taste the bitterness of the coffee lingering on his tongue.
Klaus smiles, a little apologetically. “I mean, it wouldn’t be weird,” he says with a disarming shrug. “And it’s not like you’re the only one or something. I mean, I think we’re all a little lost right now -- me especially. Do you know that this is the longest I’ve been sober in my adult life? I have no idea -- absolutely none -- what I’m doing. Every morning I wake up feels like a crap shoot.”
Klaus is being self deprecating, as Klaus is wont to do, but he’s not being dishonest. There’s not even a hint of duplicity, no lie of convenience. Klaus is here, drinking coffee at 1 AM just like he is.
Chewing his lip for a moment, Five figures there’s no way out of this except through. He’s pragmatic about these things. “Okay,” he says. “So what do you do, then?”
Klaus blinks across from him, as if he’s processing the question more than once. “Wait,” he says. “Is this -- are you -- asking for help?”
Five’s defenses flare again, and he picks up his coffee mug, taking a drink protectively as he glowers over the top of the mug. “No,” he says curtly. “I’m just in the kitchen drinking coffee. You’re the one who sat down.”
This is all technically true.
They both know it’s still basically completely a lie.
Klaus isn’t the confrontational type, however. He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Nevermind, then.”
By all accounts, that could be the end of it. Five has asked for nothing, and Klaus should have no compelling reason to oblige what Five has not actually requested. Shifting uncomfortably, Five forces himself to take another drink. He hasn’t noticed before now; it really does taste bad.
He should just ask, he thinks.
All he has to do is ask.
He doesn’t want to; he doesn’t think he can.
He drains the rest of the coffee from his mug and holds it in his mouth until he feels like he might be sick. Then, he forces himself to swallow.
Across from him, Klaus doesn’t need to hear the question.
Because Klaus, in true Klaus form, answers anyway. “I want to quit, you know,” he says, like he’s telling a story. “I mean, I want to quit all the time. I want to go out and find drugs, any drugs, the best drugs, the cheapest drugs, all the drugs. I want to take them all and forget everything so I don’t have to keep trying.”
Five is still holding the empty coffee mug, not sure what else to do.
Klaus continues with a shrug. “Because sometimes I can’t even remember why, you know? Why I’m doing this. Why it matters so much. Because getting high is just so much easier. It’s a hell of a lot more fun,” he says. He laughs a little, fiddling with his mug. “But I don’t know. I made a choice, I think. And it’s not a choice to do anything except believe that what I’m doing now -- we we’re doing now, the Umbrella Academy -- is worth it. Every day’s a fight, trust me. But, I mean, I don’t know. You’re good at fighting, right?”
Five frowns, quizzical. “I guess,” he says. “But what are you fighting for?”
Klaus snorts. “My sanity, most of the time.”
Five looks down.
Klaus flits his hand through the air. “Family, too. Family more. Because sanity -- it comes and goes. Family, though. I think that stays.”
Five looks up again.
Klaus smiles at him. “And you hope it’s enough,” he says. “That’s all. That’s how you do it. But, I mean, you know this, Five. You’re the one who reminded us. You’re the one who spent a lifetime believing it.”
A lifetime.
Another lifetime.
Five exhales, more shakily than before. It could be the caffeine giving him the jitters; it’s not. “Honestly, it was a lot easier then.”
Klaus makes a face, a little perplexed by the notion. “Easier? In the apocalypse? Or as a time traveling assassin?”
Five shrugs. “Both,” he says. “Back then, it was just survival. Plain and simple.”
Klaus is quiet for a moment. He tilts his head. “So what’s different now?”
That’s the question, then. That’s the heart of it.
What’s different now?
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
Maybe it’s just that Five is different and he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know why.
Five just doesn’t know.
He looks at the coffee mug and swallows hard. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Klaus says quietly. “Do you want a refill?”
Five glances up, surprised.
“Of coffee,” Klaus says. He nods to the counter where the pot is percolating. “You got a lot left in there.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing the mug over to Klaus with numb fingers. “Thanks.”
Klaus takes the cup and fills it up. He brings it back, setting the steaming liquid in front of Five again before sitting back down in his place. He takes a sip of his own coffee, watching as Five tentatively took a sip of his own. Sharp, hot and bitter, it burns all the way down his throat. He takes another sip anyway.
“You know,” Klaus says, after several more moments of silence. “You don’t have to drink coffee alone. Not even at 1 AM.”
Five’s not asking for help, and Klaus isn’t offering. This is a simple, practical matter, is all.
Five picks up the mug and wraps his fingers around it. “I will keep that in mind.”
Five.
It’s supposed to be okay.
Five has the Umbrella Academy off the ground. His siblings are training, fully committed to honing their skills in the field. He’s spending significant time with others, and he’s making all the pragmatic efforts involved with starting over.
Therefore, he deduces, it’s supposed to be okay.
It is not, however, okay.
It is not even remotely okay.
Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back in the apocalypse. He can smell it, taste it on his tongue. He can feel his fingers twitch like they’re on the trigger of a gun. He catches himself, factoring out equations about the end of the world, and it takes him several minutes to convince himself that it’s over, it’s done. He’s saved his family; he’s saved the world.
The problem is, at this point, Five’s come to realize that he hasn’t saved himself.
In fact, he hasn’t even contended with the fact that he’s in trouble.
Except now for the fact that he’s positively one hundred percent losing his damn mind.
It’s silly, is what it is. It’s utterly pointless. Five has worked hard to get here. He has made sure he has structure. He has given himself purpose. He has built up his relationship so that he has actual, meaningful companionship.
Why isn’t it enough?
It’s supposed to be enough.
The problem is he has no idea what.
Putting such an inconvenient truth into words is more than awkward. For Five, it’s nothing short of impossible. He may as well just ask for help while he’s at it. It’s not going to happen.
Therefore, his options are limited but decisive.
If he can’t figure out what he needs, then he needs to stop trying. He needs to stop thinking. He needs to stop having the pretense of getting better. Five’s always been better with a mission, so that’s what he’ll do.
The mission.
He considers himself fortunate when the call finally comes in. Luther thinks they’re ready. Diego is ready to move into action. Allison has deemed them fit. Klaus thinks their powers are stable. Even Vanya is ready, albeit tentatively, to go back in the field. Five’s a sleep deprived mess who is short tempered and angry, but it’s not like he’s about to say no to a mission.
An actual mission.
Just what he needs.
It is, of course, messier than they anticipate. It’s more complicated than Luther expects, and Diego is worried about the tactical variations. Allison is rusty in the field, and Klaus is overwhelmed by his powers. Vanya spends most of her time hyperventilating in the car, but that’s fine. It’s just fine.
See, there are bad guys that must be taken out.
There are innocent people who must be brought out of a burning house.
These are simple things, problems with straightforward solutions. Five helps as Luther and Diego disarm the men, and he lets them tie them up to wait for the authorities. Then, he helps Allison and Vanya with the evacuation, before working with Klaus as he channels Ben to identify the rest of the people who may be trapped inside.
There are at least 5 more victims on the upper floors, and Allison coaches the injured to keep breathing while Vanya grips his arm. “Five, be careful,” she pleads.
But Five smirks.
Careful is the last thing on his mind.
This is the most focused he’s felt in days, weeks, months. Hell, years.
“Ben’s upstairs,” Klaus says, shaking with exertion as he holds open his link with the spirit world. “You’ll find him on the second floor landing -- he can direct you from there.”
Five doesn’t need another invitation. He blinks out, and materializes exactly as he’s supposed to. It’s a rush of adrenaline, and he is all but smiling when he finds Ben, right where Klaus says he’ll be. “Two kids, second door to your right,” he says. “Can you take them both?”
“Why not?” Five asks, flashing his way into the room. He scoops up the kids -- both crying -- and channels his own energy. It’s not an easy task to jump through space; it’s a lot harder when you’ve got cargo. But Five’s at his best when he doesn’t have any other options. He’s always been responsive to do or die situations.
Usually he does.
He has no reason to suspect this time will be different.
Still, he’s winded when he gets the kids down. He hands one off to Allison, and Vanya takes the other.
“The far end of the house this time,” Klaus yells at him, his body thrumming from concentration. “Agh, you got to hurry.”
Five doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s better at answer requests than making them, and he balls his fists and splices himself through space. He balks at the smoke when he comes back into existence, and his eyes burn as Ben comes face to face with him. “Old woman. Back bedroom.”
Ben doesn’t ask if he can do it this time.
Maybe he does, but Five doesn’t stick around to find out.
He blinks into the room, grabs the woman and blinks out. He has to make a pitstop on the stairs, gathering his strength to jump again, as the old woman wails at him. He all but drops her, breathing heavily as he materializes on the street again.
“Shit, two more,” Klaus says. He frowns. “The attic?”
Five looks up. The attic is three storeys up. It’s high, and he’s lightheaded. These are not good conditions for continuous jumps, especially not when he’s trying to carry cargo. He reminds himself that do or die is actually and either/or. It leaves the possibility of failure.
Failure, he thinks. As he makes the jump, he lands hard on the ground. Both feet are beneath him, but he reels. He’s in the apocalypse again; the world is burning.
No, he reminds himself. Blinking through the smog, it’s the house that’s burning.
Five’s got to focus. He has to focus.
He inhales thickly through the smoke and shudders as he turns. Ben’s standing there, looking concerned. “Five, you can’t do this--”
“I have to,” he says. “Two more, right?”
“Yeah, already out cold,” Ben says. “A couple--”
Five moves toward them, finding the middle aged couple huddled together near a window that wouldn’t open. He reaches down to pick them up, but the weight of the man makes him stagger.
“Five,” Ben says. “Are you sure about this? There’s still time to bring in the others--”
He shakes his head. He’s not back at Commission headquarters. The Handler doesn’t smirk at him from behind her desk. His grip tightens on the man’s arm and slings up him over his shoulder, almost dwarfed by the weight.
“Five--”
He blinks.
No, he blinks.
He’s on the street corner again. The man falls limply from his grasp. He looks back up.
“Five?” Vanya asks. “Five?”
He blinks again.
The world is burning.
He opens his eyes.
He has to finish the job.
Blindly, he doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do, but he feels his way forward anyway. He finds the woman and picks her up with numb arms. He can’t feel anything anymore. He can’t--
Ben is in front of him, eyes wide. “Five, you’re not okay,” he says. “You need to stop. You need to stop and get out right now before you pass out.”
He says that like he’s worried. Like he thinks Five’s actually going to push himself to his breaking point, work himself into exhaustion, so he can pass out and die in some stupid burning house during some stupid mission.
Funny, he knows that’s a terrible idea, but it sounds like the best idea.
He swallows hard, blinking the soot out of his eyes. “This is what I have to do. It’s all I have,” he says. “It’s the job.”
Ben is dead, but Ben is incredulous. “Five, we’re more than a job,” he says, and he reaches up. His touch is solid, hands on Five’s shoulders. “Five. Do you understand? Are you listening?”
He is, but it’s too late, really. Life is full of points of no return, and Five’s just crossed another one. He’s good at making lines in the sand; he’s even good at living with the consequences of those drastic choices.
He’ll do it again.
Or, maybe preferably, he won’t.
“This is the only thing I know how to do, Ben,” he says, hoisting the woman closer as he musters his strength. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
He blinks.
Falling through the darkness, it’s nice to think that there are endings. Maybe not the end of everything, but the end of something. The end of his questions. The end of his doubts. The end of his flashbacks.
Mostly, the end of him.
He opens his eyes in the glaring sunlight. He drops to his knees, the woman rolling from his grasp onto the ground. His heart flutters in his chest and his eyes burn. Suddenly, Ben is in front of him again.
“Five,” he yells. “Tell me what’s wrong! Tell me!”
Five doesn’t have the words, though.
He never has.
And this time, he doesn’t even have the strength.
Exhausted and spent, Five’s eyes roll up in his head. The words help me are trapped in his throat as the darkness finally, mercifully, swallows him whole.
One Way He Maybe, Sort of, Possibly Does Not.
Five’s never asked for help in his life.
He’s also never given up.
No matter how you slice it, he’s probably due for a first. If you would have told him he would have surrendered his life ahead of his pride, he might have laughed. Then, he probably would have believed you.
Because quitting is easier.
He’s not sure why he didn’t see it earlier. Quitting is the simplest thing in the world. He should have tried it sooner: not trying. Not caring. Giving up.
He knows that if he’d given up before, the world would have ended and his siblings would have died.
But still.
At least, now, now that it’s all done, there’s nothing to lose.
Nothing except himself, that is.
Funny, how it doesn’t seem like that much.
He sleeps, mostly because he can. He’s aware, if only vaguely, of being transferred back to the house. He’s aware of Mom and oxygen treatments, and an IV in his arm. He’s aware that his siblings crowd around him, hovering at his bedside anxiously. It’s like they blame themselves. Like they saw this coming and didn’t do enough to stop them.
Five would tell them that’s ridiculous. He’s made his own terrible choices, but sleeping is easier. Sleeping is better.
He sleeps without memory. He sleeps without flashback. He sleeps without purposes.
It’s just sleep.
Whole, encompassing and consuming. He’d sleep forever, if he could.
Unfortunately, he can’t.
He holds onto it as long as he can, but after several days, he’s aware that he’s recovered. His chest doesn’t hurt; there’s no tightness in his throat. His energy levels are normalizing, and when he closes his eyes, it’s harder and harder to drift off.
Still, he’s a stubborn bastard, and he closes his eyes when his siblings cycle through. He doesn’t reply when Luther tells him how sorry he is, that the Umbrella Academy is waiting for him. He keeps his eyes closed when Diego explains that everyone is still training, hard as they can. He doesn’t respond when Allison promises that they’re all still committed, that there’s no holding back. He sleeps his way through Klaus’ rambling, telling him that they’re together, they’re together for the long haul. He sleeps when Ben hovers, barely coalesced, telling him that it’s okay to rest. It’s just okay.
He can’t find the words to answer them, you see.
Five can’t find the words at all.
Until Vanya shows up.
She’s weepy and scared, and she sits next to him without making a word. This has been hard on her, and she’s not bearing the weight with as much dignity as her siblings. When she holds vigil, Vanya is not like the others. She doesn’t have promises. She doesn’t offer platitudes. But she sits next to him, unyielding in her presence, fingers on the bed, but not quite touching his.
She will listen, he thinks.
He opens his eyes, and she smiles at him. Watery and shaky.
No, he corrects himself. She won’t listen. She’ll hear.
Five’s pride is already forfeit. His life is strung out, and his purpose as been spent. All he has left is a simple, desperate plea.
“Vanya,” he says, gasping through the exhaustion that clings to him. “Please.”
She scoots forward intently. “Please what? Are you hungry? Do you need water? Are you in pain? Should I get Mom?”
He shakes his head, and closes his eyes. His eyes burn and his throat is tight again. It’s nothing to do with exhaustion or smoke inhalation. He opens his eyes again. “No, no,” he says, the two syllables halting. “I just. Please. Help.”
She frowns earnestly. “Help with what, Five?” she asks gently. There’s no judgement. There’s no condescension. There’s just concern.
There’s just hope.
He wets his lips, and when he exhales, he shudders with a sob he can’t acknowledge. “With everything,” he says. He laughs, unable to stop as tears leak from his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I can’t make sense of anything. I’m lost, Vanya. I saved the world. I saved my family. And I lost myself. I can’t do it on my own. Not anymore. I need help. Please, help me.”
The words are shaky, scared and true. Vanya, curling closer to him, scoops up his fingers and folds them in her own. “Five,” she says. “Of course I will.”
She presses her lips to his hand as he chokes on another cry. He can’t stop it; he won’t stop it.
“We all will,” she promises as he starts to cry in earnest now. “All you ever had to do was ask.”
Five’s been asking for help, you see. He’s been asking for it all along, every second of every day since he got back. He’s asked a thousand different ways, practically begging them to realize that he’s as messed up as you can get. He’s survived so much, but he’s done it in silence. The apocalypse took his words, just like it took his pride and security, and those are all things he can’t quite get back. The words are ones he knows, but they don’t form in his mouth anymore. They don’t seem to fit on his tongue.
You could call it fear, maybe. You could say that Five’s afraid. And that’s probably accurate, because Five’s survived too much shit not to be scared.
But now that the words are out, now that they’ve been realized, now that his vulnerability is laid bare, Five discovers the unexpected freedom. He’s never been one to relish his own weaknesses, but there is something innately reassuring in knowing that they can be so readily accepted. Really, no one likes asking for help, but Five knows better than anyone in the world that it’s worse when there’s no one there to answer.
That’s the real fear, then. Not exposing his own vulnerability. But the idea that his pleas will go unheard, lost in the vacuum of time.
Because yes, he does need help. He needs help with his plans and the missions. He needs help with the Commission and with the legal complications of being 13 again. He needs help learning how to move on without Delores and how to interact with normal people at all. He needs help with his nightmares, his irregular eating habits, his tendency to scribble on any surface he sees -- all of it.
The bottom line is this: Five needs help.
Asking for help sucks.
But getting an answer is worth it.