Umbrella Academy fic: The Start of the Story (14/16)
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN
PART EIGHT
PART NINE
PART TEN
PART ELEVEN
PART TWELVE
PART THIRTEEN
PART FOURTEEN
PART FIFTEEN
PART SIXTEEN
-o-
It takes him nearly half an hour, walking and wheezing the last half. Diego stays with him stride for stride, and when Five is nearly too weak to go on, Diego half carries him the whole way home and they cross the threshold together. Diego tells him he did good, but that’s a lie. Five did horrible in every possible way. His performance, his attitude. Even his ability to stand up for himself was a pitiful showing.
Five curses his compliance all the way up to his attic bedroom, and he damns his DNA as he changes into something not soaked through with seat. He’s sore as he gets changed, moving like an old man.
“You are an old man,” Five mutters crossly.
He starts to button up his fresh shirt. “It never felt like this before.”
“Before is a relative term of little significant,” he argues.
His fingers are shaking so bad that the task is nearly impossible to complete. “It’s still an important distinction.”
“There is simply no precedent for living 58 years and being inside a teenage body,” he posits. “Not to mention surviving torture. Even if you do want to make the distinction, the comparison is false. The comparative points are not equivalent values.”
“Are we honestly saying that three decades in the apocalypse is worse than a limited period of time in Commission custody?” he asks, smoothing out his shirt front.
“Again, the assumption is that time is the most relevant factor.”
“No,” Five says, reaching for one of his ties. “The assumption is that it’s the apocalypse. Why are you acting like a few tests and electrical shocks is so much worse?”
“And you think it’s one or the other? Time is cumulative. The experiences are not in isolation.”
Five stops thoughtfully as he loops the necktie around. “Are you suggesting that mental capacity was already compromised prior to this incident and that recent events have merely highlighted a mental decline that was already markedly in progress?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Five stops, looking at himself in the mirror. It’s only then that he realizes he’s the only person there.
In short, he’s talking to himself.
No mannequin. No projections of his siblings.
Just a prolonged, philosophical conversation out loud while he debates whether or not he’s crazy.
Funny enough, he thinks he answered the question.
Just not probably the way he’d hoped.
-o-
Needless to say, when Allison comes to hang out with him the next day, Five’s already in a foul mood. He’s angry, restless and tired, and Allison wants to play Scrabble.
“That’s the one game you always liked playing as kids,” she cajoles. “You said it was the only one that required pure intellect.”
Did he say that? Did he really?
Funny, Five hardly remembers being 13.
The first or second time around.
It is unclear if this is a good or bad thing, but the fact that he can’t remember is annoying. He scowls in principle. “Games are a waste of time.”
“Games are fun,” she replies without missing a beat. “Fun isn’t a waste of time. We need it in order to stay sane.”
It’s very likely that Allison is speaking in broad terms and that her comment is not intended as a slight. But Five feels his hackles raise, and he has no impulse to check them as a reasonable person might. “Pretty sure that a board game isn’t going to fix me,” he says, surly as ever. “It’s just your attempt to pass the time so you don’t have to think about how insane I might actually be.”
Allison sighs, putting the box down. “Or I think it might be fun to do something with my brother. We’ve all spent too much time apart. Quality time matters. I don’t take it for granted.”
She says it like she says it: reasonable and mature and it’s beyond frustrating. Because Five is almost twice her age, and she’s had the luxury of embracing sentimentality, and she doesn’t have a clue, all right? She doesn’t have a damn clue what quality time means. She doesn’t know about three decades in the apocalypse. She doesn’t know about days in an interrogation room. She doesn’t know about weeks strapped to a bed or closed in a bleak cell with nothing.
Time is something Five understand acutely, in a way that none of his siblings ever will. They think a few hops through time means something. They think a year tracing his trail is meaningful. They think it’s safe and controlled and manageable.
In short, his siblings don’t know anything.
He makes a face, sour like he’s sucking on a lemon. “If you’re so interested in quality time, then why don’t you bother spending it with your daughter? I thought the custody agreement finally came through.”
He takes some satisfaction by the momentary look of surprise. Some things are supposed to be off limits for all of them. No one blinks at the fact that he’s been in love with a mannequin. People don’t mention the moon around Luther. You’re not supposed to talk about the apocalypse around Vanya.
And with Claire, you’re not supposed to bring up Claire unless you’re saying how much you want to meet her. That’s the unspoken assumption.
Five rips it to shreds with one precisely smug look.
Allison is a true professional, however. She recovers herself quickly. “It has,” she says. “But Claire’s in school right now. Patrick and I agreed we would wait until the end of the year before changing things.”
This answer is entirely too reasonable. Five all but sneers. “So you’ll let, what, months slip by? What about that quality time?”
Five is upping his game, but Allison is rising to the bait right now. “That’s my point, though, isn’t it?” she says. “Quality time isn’t about your own selfish desires. It’s not about what’s logical or functional. It’s about what’s best for the other person. Claire has a life in California, and I’m trying to respect that. Just like you have a life here -- an actual life, Five -- and I’m trying to respect that. And I want you to respect it, too.”
It’s damn near condescending, and Five’s endured too much, too long. He shakes his head. “It’s nothing but your misplaced motherly instinct,” he says. “You should just leave and spend time with Claire. Unless you’re afraid that after all this time, she doesn’t want you after all.”
He’s going for the kill now, right for the jugular. It’s his training, isn’t it? His instinct.
But Allison is ever steady. “You’re mad, but not at me.”
“I’m mad that I’ve got decades of experience and you want to ply me with board games like I’m truly a child,” he says. “You want to pretend like we can laugh and bond over a five letter word with a z in the middle like it’s going to fix everything that’s happened. You’re an idiot. You talk about quality time, but what quality time can I get with you.”
The angrier he gets, the calmer Allison becomes. “You’re mad at life, Five. You’re mad that you had to make that deal and that your plan came at such a high cost,” she says. “You’re mad that you suffered, you endured, and you don’t know what it was for sometimes. You’re mad at the Commission. You’re mad at us. You’re probably even mad at yourself for being weak or something. You’re mad at everything. I just happen to be here right now.”
He’s fuming, cheeks outright burning now. His anger is precarious, however. He feels the edges of his self control slipping, and he grapples with his emotions to pull it back in before he can’t predict the outcome. “If that’s what you have to tell yourself,” he mutters coolly.
“It is,” she says, resolute. “But not because I think I’m a bad mother. I have to tell myself that to remember that you’re still my brother, no matter what, and I still love you.”
This time, his stomach turns so hard that he feels like he might actually be physically ill. What does she mean by that? What can she possibly mean? Affection is not a form of manipulation the Commission tried on him, but he wonders if it might have been more effective. He wonders if he could fold like a damn house of cards for love and connection. All those years alone in the apocalypse, and the thing that saved him was saving his family. Weeks (months?) in isolation at the Commission home office, and it had been an imagined version of his family that had kept him sane.
It’s easy enough to deduce, therefore, that Five is an individual starved for love. It is not so atypical to think that such an offer would be compelling to him in a way that torture isn’t.
It’s impossible to say where genetic manipulation plays into this, and Five shakes his head, face set. “If it’s so hard, then why bother at all?”
The words are vindictive, spat at her like a challenge.
Allison rises. “You of all people know that just because something is easy doesn’t mean it’s worthwhile.”
He shrugs caustically. “Maybe I was wrong.”
She is steady. She is not the droning monotony of an interrogation. She is not the coerced screams of a medical experiment. She’s not the shock of obedience from behavior training. She is not a locked door of an isolation cell.
She’s his sister.
“You weren’t,” she replies simply.
He recoils physically, more than before. He’s angry and he’s frustrated; he doesn’t know what he is. “What do you want me to do?”
“Play the damn game,” she says, letting her voice cut along the edge of her compassion. “Be a person for awhile.”
His chest flares out defiantly. “I don’t really want to.”
She makes a face, a noise like a scoff in the back of her throat. “And you think I do?”
For some reason, that hurts. “Then what the hell is the point of any of this?”
“Family’s the point,” she replies. She gathers a breath and lets it out hard. “Sometimes you have to choose love even when you don’t feel it. Even when it’s tiring or hard or frustrating. It’s a choice you make. It’s volition.”
He purses his lips, ever skeptical. “And you think I can make that choice by playing a board game?”
Her expression eases, lips quirked up in something of a smile. “Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
With that Five faces the inevitability of it all. He looks at Allison; he looks at the board game.
And then he complies.
-o-
Five wins all three rounds they play, though Allison’s vocabulary has expanded significantly since the time they last played. He almost smiles by the end of it, when he finishes off the worst of his letters with the word zygote for the win. It’s a little like satisfaction, and Allison grins at him.
“See?” she says. “That wasn’t so bad.”
The statement is pointless due to its total lack of independent measures. It’s relativistic. Of course it’s not so bad. How can anything be bad when Five has the apocalypse and the Commission as a measuring stick.
She packs up the board. “You didn’t need to throw such a fit,” she muses. “Next time, maybe we can skip the drama.”
There’s no actual reason why this irks him. She’s being nice. She’s being playful. Banter is a thing they do, and Five’s never shied away from that. But it wears on him. Everything wears on him. The assumptions, the expectations, the inevitability. It can be good natured, but Allison is still telling him what to do, dictating the limits and boundaries of his existence, and Five’s about ready to explode.
He is not, however, ready to tell her that. It’s too likely to be a conversation that will be emotional. Moreover, he knows she won’t understand. None of them understand. Five’s not even sure he understands it himself when he gets right down to it.
If he can just follow orders.
If he can just toe the line.
He flinches, almost expecting a jolt of electricity.
When it doesn’t come, he tightens his jaw and gets up. “No drama,” he says flatly. “But don’t assume that I’m going to willing play this with you.”
Allison looks disappointed. “You had fun--”
“You told me what to do,” he says. “I humored you. That’s all.”
“Five--”
But he’s not listening. He turns on his heels, stalking out of the room with his hands shoved into his pockets. They’re balled tight into fists, and he is relieved that she doesn’t call after him. He hates to think that he might be compelled to comply with that request as well.
He’s out of his bedroom and down the hall before he realizes that he doesn’t know where he’s going. The novelty of going had seemed like an apt enough solution, but Five can kick and scream about being told what to do without acknowledging that he doesn’t exactly have any other ideas.
His pulse quickens, and it’s something like panic. He doesn’t want them to know how aimless he is. He doesn’t want them to know that the power of his DNA has circumvented his free will. He doesn’t want them to know that he’s as lost as he is scared. There’s nothing pragmatic about it, but Five’s not quite at the level where he can care about that.
Instead, he ducks into the first vacant room he finds. It’s his bathroom, and he’s quite relieved suddenly for the unnecessary number of such rooms in the mansion. He closes the door and locks it behind him before almost collapsing against the side of he sink. He takes a long moment to breathe, eyes squeezed shut against the pounding in his skull. He’s half convinced that if he opens his eyes, he’ll be back in the cell.
Or worse.
His entire life is an inevitability now. With nothing else to do, he finally opens his eyes. The bathroom is dimly light, natural light from the window scarce as the night comes on. He can get away with going to the bathroom, but being here in the dark will attract attention. After being alone so long, you might think that attention is what Five craves. And maybe he does; he just has no idea what to do with it.
He has no idea what to do with himself.
Sighing, he reaches over and turns on the light.
A simple flick of the switch.
There’s a pop and a flash; Five braces but his scream is caught in his throat. Terror surges, and his body sings with the electricity. He waits for the pain, clenching his teeth together in anticipation for doing it wrong.
Doing what wrong? It doesn’t matter. Five’s doing everything wrong.
Another second passes, and it occurs to Five belatedly that nothing is happening.
Opening his eyes, he realizes the obvious facts.
He’s still in the bathroom.
It’s still dark despite the fact that lightswitch is up.
The fuse has blown.
Five is fine.
Five is fine.
Five is fine?
Except for the fact that Five is having a flashback in the bathroom.
No, he’s having a panic attack.
He considers it with a strange objectivity. His heart is pounding, his palms are sweating. His ears are ringing and his vision is white around the edges. He’s about to keel over, he’s breathing so hard, and his skin is burning from the expectancy alone.
It’s coming; it’s not coming.
If it doesn’t come, Five will manifest it on his own.
It’s evitable, right?
It’s written in his DNA.
Five is helpless, and he doesn’t have a plan for any of this.
With that, the rush of feeling overwhelms him, and the objectivity is replaced by the sheer force of his anxiety. He rails when he breathes now, desperate high pitched noise as he blinks against blind eyes. He’s not in a bathroom anymore; he’s in a lab. He’s strapped to a table, and there are electrodes pressed into his temples. Pavlov’s dog, he thinks.
But they broke him, the clerk exclaims.
I bet you miss those schoolboy shorts now, don’t you? the Handler coos.
And Five gets to his knees, he kisses the hand, he follows orders, and none of it changes anything. The shock galvanizes him, and he’s only vaguely aware of his own scream as he slams his fists on the counter. The anger wells up now, like a riptide that pulls him under. Frantic, he pounds until his fists are raw, and he kicks at the cabinet hard enough to feel the wood splinter. It’s only when he lashes out against the mirror, shards cutting into the broken knuckles, that the whole thing shatters.
The mirror breaks, a thousand pieces as it rains down. He stands, staring at himself in the remnants, and his image is refracted and broken too. It sobers him, for what it’s worth. The memory fades and he finds himself back in the here and now. His hands are bleeding; the bathroom is ruined. He hears his siblings yelling in the distance, feet clamoring on the stairs.
The splintered parts of himself in the shattered reflection are, ironically, the most recognizable version of himself.
-o-
Needless to say, the others are not thrilled about Five’s performance in the bathroom. He doesn’t attempt to explain it, but to be fair, they hardly ask. In some ways, Five figures it’s probably self explanatory. It doesn’t matter if it’s specifically a flashback. They all know by now that Five’s a mess.
Their mother treats his hands while Allison and Vanya watch. The others are tending to the bathroom, probably picking up the pieces while discussing what to do next. They probably wonder if Five’s a danger to himself or others. They’re probably talking about psychological treatment, medications and interventions.
This should be concerning, but Five finds it decidedly uninteresting. It doesn’t actually matter, not like they think it will. Five doesn’t think it will fix him at any rate.
With that in mind, he goes to bed with hands bandaged like paws and two pain pills.
Five complies.
Because of course he does.
-o-
The stupid thing is that Five’s embarrassed about it, which means he’s angry about being embarrassed, and he’s ashamed to admit that he’s angry, which only serves to make him more irritable. Five has very few coping mechanisms in life that don’t involve alcohol, coffee, violence and sarcasm. Since three of those options are not available, you would think he would settle on the fourth, but upon further reflection, he’s honestly not sure what’s available to him and what’s not.
The end result is that Five spends much of the morning being quiet. He shuffles about the house obediently and does tasks upon command. When asked a question, he answers it in a perfunctory fashion. His siblings seem intent on keeping him downstairs and in so-called public spaces. It’s not clear to Five what they think this will accomplish, but he can find no willpower to disoblige them.
This means Five spends a lot of time sitting in the living room or pulled up to the kitchen table. He can hear the others coming and going sometimes, moving supplies up and down the stairs as they attempt to fix the mess Five made in the bathroom. The siblings not in charge of renovations take turns with Five. This is much as it has been since his return home, only they respond to his silence with silence as well.
It’s all very awkward.
Until it’s Klaus’ turn.
Klaus, after all, doesn’t know how to be quiet. It is probably not possible for him, not that he’s ever actually tried. Therefore, when Klaus takes over in the late afternoon, he approaches Five with a long monologue about how hard bathroom renovations are.
This is, of course, ridiculous. There’s no way Klaus has done anything productive concerning the bathroom renovation. Even Five in his current state would be more help than Klaus, though he thinks it’s probably telling that he’s not being allowed close.
At any rate, Five endures Klaus ramblings for quite some time until his brother, yawns, rubs his stomach and asks, “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”
Five hasn’t thought about it; it’s actually very hard for him to tell whether or not the pit in his stomach is related to food or just a new state of being for him. He’s had a weird relationship with food for awhile now -- scavenging for survival for decades will do that to you -- and being nearly starved to death in a cell apparently only makes it worse.
But more than that, Five is growing restless. He’s done nothing today, and that’s been mostly his choice, but he’s not sure he understands what a choice even is anymore. He’s not sure he believes in volition or free will, at least not where his own actions are concerned. It leaves him with a vague sense of dread, the desire to act without any grasp of what the impetus for such action should be.
The tension leaves him at loose ends, and he feels like he’s all frayed edges. He’s a tinderbox.
Klaus’ jabber, by contrast, is like a match.
It’s just a matter of time until something ignites.
There’s a part of Five that knows he should do something about it, but he can’t come up with a plan that makes any sense, so he follows Klaus into the kitchen, sits at the table, and watches as his brother attempts to make a batch of spaghetti noodles with a jar of sauce. Klaus jabbers the whole time, leaving Five to listen with rapidly deteriorating patience as the afternoon wears on.
Somehow, Klaus manages to make the spaghetti, and he warms up the sauce with a sufficient order of things. He talks about different types of pasta for awhile, and then he talks about different types of stoves, and for a period of time he talks about the time he tried to smoke a dried piece of angel hair pasta with questionable results (as he was already high at the time it wasn’t easy to deduce the effect except to say that it was distinctive).
With each anecdote, Five’s restlessness continues to mount. By the time Klaus is serving two heaping portions onto plates, Five is either going to shove Klaus’ face into the hot burner of the stove or use a butter knife to cut into his own jugular to make this end. This seems extreme on some level, Five knows, but he can’t quite reach that level. Where he’s at, it actually seems rather restrained, and it’s a bit of a struggle for him to decide which option is right and which one he prefers.
See, that’s the advantage to being locked in a cell. When you’re stripped of all power and control, there are minimal decisions to make. The simple choice to take another breath is about as important as it gets. That’s not really an asset, but Five’s hard pressed to count it as a problem as he grapples with uncertainty now.
Oblivious, Klaus serves Five with a beaming smile. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he says, picking up his own plate and plunking it down across from Five. “Two brothers, sharing dinner. And it’s homemade, too. That always feels like something, doesn’t it? An accomplishment? I had a lot of days when feeding myself was hard enough, so actually cooking? This is adulting, isn’t it? I’m actually an adult.”
Five says nothing. Out of obligation, he picks up the fork he’s been provided. The expectancy is suffocating; it is also the only thing that keeps him moderately functional.
Klaus takes what appears to be a savory bite and he smiles. “That doesn’t really taste that good,” he says. He looks at his plate ruefully. “I really thought it’d be better.”
Five looks at his place and moves his fork. It’s a detached process while he winds spaghetti onto it, and it tastes like rubber in his mouth.
The consolation is that rubber is better than ash.
Across from him, Klaus is still disconcerted. “I mean, it’s still satisfying, making your own food,” he says, as if trying to salvage his efforts. “And it’s relaxing. I mean, watching water boil. That’s amazing. I mean, I used to think that, you know, back when I was high or drunk or whatever, but it is. And we all need more ways to relax, right?”
Five swallows with a wince. The food has no taste and the kitchen is a mess. His brother is recalling the nuances of boiling water while high. Five knows his perspective is irrevocably skewed, but he’s not sure he would classify any of these elements as situationally relaxing. This is an opinion, of course, and Five not sure if it’s an accurate reflection of anything and he keeps his mouth shut.
Klaus barely notices. He takes the silence as an unfettered invitation to continue. “I mean, think about it. Cooking is quiet. And not just quiet, but it’s purposeful. Intentional.” He holds up a finger, as if this is something he knows quite a bit about. “Intentionality is instructive. It adds value to life. It builds up.”
Five stops short of putting his fork back into the pasta. He feels moderately convicted, and he’s not sure if that’s Klaus’ fault or not. “You mean it’s something that doesn’t involve home destruction,” he says, and it comes out pointed instead of uncertain. Maybe it’s pointed because it’s uncertain. Maybe it’s pointed because Five doesn’t know how to be a good human being.
Klaus doesn’t take any of those possible implications. Instead, he looks vaguely stricken. “Well, I mean, sure, I guess,” he says, making it clear that he hadn’t been thinking about that. “When you put it like that.”
Five starts to feel perturbed. It occurs to him that this is the first time the sensation has reached a breaking point all day long. Usually it happens sooner and more often. Usually he’s had multiple outburst, lobbied countless insults and sulked most of the day. You might call his attitude today contrition. Five suspects that’s too generous a description. It’s more likely to be shock or embarrassment.
“I do,” he says, the emotions coming to a boil. He thinks about Klaus’ strange fondness for boiling water, and he doesn’t think this qualifies. It’s no matter; Klaus’ obliviousness is the problem right now. Five’s literally destroyed a bathroom and Klaus acts like it’s incidental. Like the bathroom is expendable. Like Five’s actions are without consequence.
Like it’s all par for the course where Five is concerned.
No one wants to talk about it, do they? No one wants to say it out loud. Everyone wants to pretend like it didn’t happen, like none of this happened. Like Five didn’t happen.
That could be comforting -- the idea of nonexistence has undeniable appeal -- but the instinct to survive fights against it, and Five is overwhelmed within seconds.
Klaus has sobered -- that never fails to be ironic for Five -- and he blinks over at Five arnest. “Okay,” he says slowly. Then he gesticulates. “I mean, I get why you’d feel like that, I do--”
Five’s face contorts. With the indecision, rage mounts. “And why don’t you?” he asks spitefully. “Why don’t my antics in the bathroom matter to you at all?”
What answer does Five want? Does he want their pity? Does he want their concern? Such responses would be insulting and diminutive, but is pretending it didn’t happen better? Is this where Five is now? That he has to pick between their pity and their ignorance? Is it better to be seen as a child -- or better not to be seen at all?
This isn’t part of the plan.
But who is Five kidding -- there is no plan.
“It’s a bathroom,” Klaus says. “I mean, as long as you’re okay, then I don’t see what other response I should be having.”
“You think I’m okay?” Five asks, and his voice rises. It’s funny; it’s hilarious. Five chokes on a bitter laugh. “Do you really?”
Klaus backtracks quickly, holding his hands up. “No, I mean, physically,” he says. “What you’ve been through, there are going to be ups and downs, and we get that -- I get that. But you seem a little more upset than usual right now--”
He’s placating. He’s delaying. He’s equivocating. Five shakes his head with a snarl. “I’m very upset.”
Klaus leans forward at that. “You don’t have to be -- we’re not mad, none of us,” he says as reassuringly as he can. “I mean, have you seen this old place? It’s in desperate need of an update, so we should really be thanking you--”
Five shakes his head again, more vindictively. His heart is starting to pound. Fight or flight instincts are setting in, and Five struggles to come to the right conclusions. He has no idea. “This isn’t about home renovation,” he says, and he’s starting to shake a little now. The emotion. It’s the emotion. “This isn’t even a little bit about home renovation.”
Klaus nods quickly. “I know,” he says. “I do. I know that.”
Five breathes out, hard and fast. He’s squeezing the fork in his hands tight, so tight that he can feel the metal almost cutting into his skin. “It’s about me,” he says. “It’s about me losing control.”
Klaus is going a little pale. He looks sorry. “I know,” he says, quieter than before. It’s compassion, Five supposes. But he doesn’t know how to separate compassion from pity. He doesn’t deserve either.
Recklessly, he inhales sharply before his control slips. “And you really don’t want to talk about it? You want to sit here and talk about bad pasta and boiling water and not the fact that I totally lost my shit and no one wants to say it?”
Klaus’ shoulders slump. “Five,” he says like his heart is breaking. “Look, it doesn’t help, talking about it. I mean, it will, someday. But not until you’re ready. It’s like being an addict, right? Until you make that choice to be sober, nothing anyone says or does will matter. You have to make the choice, though. And we’re just waiting for you to make it, is all. We want you to choose getting better.”
The compassion is too much now. Five is drowning in it. He flails in the only way he can to keep his head above the proverbial waters. “Oh, right,” he mocks. “Make the choice. Like you did?”
Klaus has come too far to be so easily deflected. He straightens a little at the implication, but he nods. “Yes, like I did.”
Five knows Klaus fought for his sobriety. He knows it hasn’t been an easy choice. He knows, and he doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. He doesn’t know how to care. “You didn’t make the choice,” he sneers. “The apocalypse did.”
It’s a bit more pointed that Klaus has been expecting. There’s a flicker of doubt on his face. “That was an extenuating factor, sure,” he says. “But it was still me -- it had to be -- or it wouldn’t have stuck. If I hadn’t made the choice, I would have gone right back to my old habits when it was over. I choose to be sober; I choose to be okay.”
There’s something mature about that. Klaus has grown, he’s changed. It’s not just about his powers, though they are a reflection of it all. It’s about Klaus, finding and embracing the person he’s supposed to be.
It’s such a stark contrast to Five, who has gone through all this and come out on the other end as lost as ever.
Or maybe he’s not lost. Maybe he knows. And maybe he hates the answer.
Denial is the first stage of addiction. He’s not addicted to the apocalypse anymore. Maybe now he’s addicted to his family, and his own DNA is rebelling.
Five doesn’t know.
There are no equations, no calculations. No plans.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
He’s like a wounded animal, scared and confused and the only thing he knows to do if attack.
Even if the first thing that reaches out is a helping hand.
Especially if it’s a helping hand.
“Oh, please,” he says, the words dripping with venom. “You’re barely sober, and we all know it hangs by a thread. That’s why you have to cook. Why you have to knit and sing and scrapbook. Because if you had a single second of downtime, you’d be right back out on the street, using your inheritance to get wasted again. So you don’t get to to sit here, smug and self righteous, acting like you know, like you’ve got it figured out. Because the last person who should be offering anyone -- even me -- life advice is you”
To punctuate his point, he slams the fork down prongs first. It lodges into the table’s surface.
Klaus swallows hard, looking from the quivering fork back to Five. “I know,” he says. “I know it’s tenuous. I know it all hangs by a string for me. That’s what makes it strong, what I do. That’s why the bad pasta and misshapen scarves matter. Those are how I’m going to stay sober, they’re how I’m going to be okay. What about you, Five? What are you going to do to stay sober? Shatter mirrors? It’s dramatic, I’ll give you that, but it’s a little much, don’t you think?”
Klaus is a nice brother more often than not, but it’s foolish to think he’s not as capable as the rest of them. He instinct to go for the jugular is almost as keen as Five’s. He just knows how to hold his punches better.
That said, he goes for it now.
And he lands the blow.
For Five, there’s no more internal debate. There’s just the hardwired response, deep in his DNA.
With a clatter, he pushes back his chair. He picks up his plate and stocks over to the trash, dumping the whole pile of noodles and sauce in. Then he dumps the plate unceremoniously into the sink and turns back to Klaus, fuming.
“You’re still useless to me, sober or not,” he says.
Klaus sighs. He presses his lips together and tweaks his eyebrows as if to says what the hell. “Whatever,” he says. “But you still have to eat or you will literally have everyone in this house down here watching you until you eat.”
Five’s breathing halts for a moment.
Klaus shrugs, sliding his plate across to Five’s vacant spot. “You can have mine,” he says, and he makes a show of getting to his feet. He smiles, a little brighter now. “Which means I get to make more. And we both know by now how much I love cooking.”
Five watches as Klaus half dances his way back to the fridge, opening it as he hums a tune and produces a few ingredients. He holds up a bag of frozen chicken breasts curiously. “We have to thaw these, right?”
Five gapes at him.
Klaus shrugs at the chicken and makes a pointed nod to Five’s plate. “And you, brother of mine,” he singsongs. “Better get eating.”
-o-
History repeats itself.
Five complies.
He eats dinner until his plate his empty and his stomach hurts. He eats until he’s angry and tired and barely restrained.
Five complies.
Because what’s meant to be is meant to be.
-o-
The only cost of compliance is the burning fury in his gut and the trembling of his fingers as he does as he’s told. These are emotions; they come and go, coming with more frequency than going by this point.
Oh, and also: the nightmares.
Logically, the nightmares are partially due to the nature of how he is trying to repress his memories. To consider anything short of PTSD would be ridiculous at this point, though he figures an actual diagnosis will do little to alleviate any of the problems. Treatment is questionable, as best he can figure. Therapy and medication are the only options that his siblings haven’t tried yet, and Five sees no reason to give them an indication that such things are what he wants.
He doesn’t know what he wants exactly, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t want that.
That said, he would like to stop having the nightmares.
Five rarely gets what he wants, however. Over the years, he has learned to stop expecting it. But hope is a cruel sort of thing, especially when it refuses to die when it should. This is probably why the nightmares always catch him by surprise, why he still wakes up crying, a scream caught in his throat.
That night, after his conversation with Klaus, he wakes up crying so hard he can barely breathe. He ends up retching, the contents of his too-full stomach all over the front of himself as he feels the burn of electricity and the slice of the blade. The lonely light of his cell is burned into his eyelids and the clerk says, “Just answer the question, Five.”
He throws up again, tasting the acid as it burns in his nose. He can taste it, thick on his tongue, and he remembers the candy on the Handler’s desk, candy designed to capture the essence of a decade. This would be the one for the apocalypse -- cloying and gritty, like smoke and ash clogging your nostrils and constricting your throat.
With another heave, he brings up nothing but bile, and he blinks his eyes, panting as he catches his breath.
He knows it was a nightmare.
He knows it’s not real.
Ben hovers by the bed. “Do you want me to get someone?”
Five exhales, pushing back the soiled sheets as he gingerly throws his legs over the side of the bed. “No,” he says curtly, gathering up the mess. He took off the heaviest of the bandages after washing up before bed, and there is nothing but small bandages covering the worst of the cuts. “I’ve got it.”
He balls up the items and puts them on the floor. He can still taste the vomit, and he grimaces as he unbuttons his pajamas. His fingers ache as he pulls against the healing wounds as he drops the dirty pajamas on the floor with the rest and finds himself something fresh out of the closet and put it on. He struggles with the buttons, but there’s no need for him to complain. Pain is inconsequential. He gathers up the things again.
“I need to wash these,” he announces.
Ben is right behind him now. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get someone?”
“No reason,” Five says. “You can come or you can stay, but I’m doing the laundry.”
He walks out of the room, and he doesn’t have to look back to know that Ben is following him. “Five--” Ben starts.
Five shakes his head. “It was just a nightmare,” he says. “Well, a nightmare and Klaus’ cooking.”
Ben doesn’t say anything as they traipse through the halls together.
Just a nightmare, he tells himself, breathing through the smell. Just a nightmare.
Is it a small price to pay?
At this point, Five has no idea how to judge.
-o-
The laundry room is several floors down, and the sheets aren’t heavy, but Five still feel winded by the time he gets there. He wonders if this means Diego’s fitness regimen isn’t working. Alternatively, he thinks his age is finally catching up with him, a teenager’s body be damned.
It’s fine, and Five doesn’t let it show. He methodically puts the clothes in the washer, finds the detergent and starts the load. His fingers still hurt, but it’s getting easier to move them; he knows from experience that persistence can help you desensitize anything.
That said, it’s still a funny thing, doing laundry. He can count the number of loads he’s done in his life on a single hand. Mom had done the laundry growing up, and there hadn’t been electricity in the apocalypse. When one pair of clothes got too mangy, he’d simply scavenged another.
On the road, working for the Commission, he’d been in and out of time so often that there had rarely been a point. For all that the Commission didn’t do, it did provide crisp suits for employees as needed, thus making the need to visit the laundromat nonexistent.
Yet, it’s a simple process. Five knows too much not to know how the machine works, and the dials are self explanatory enough. Hot water and soap will get the job done, and Five’s bedding and pajamas will be as good as new.
He appreciates the irony for a moment. In this dingy room, he can revitalize the laundry, make it look as good as ever. There’s no such fix for himself, though. It feels like the last few weeks have been a scalding wash, but when the layers of grime are scrubbed away, he’s not sure there’s anything left.
That’s a lie. There’s something left. It’s just not anything Five likes. Even that, though, is a vain distinction. The problem is, in pragmatic terms, is that there’s nothing left of him of any utilitarian value as far as his family is concerned. For the Commission, on the other hand, the things that are left are entirely of their choosing and making. That’s an inescapable truth.
“You should tell them.”
Five startles but doesn’t show it. He’d half forgotten that Ben was there. Partially because Ben’s a ghost. Also because Five’s senses have been clouded by the neverending train of thought he can’t reel back in. When he looks back, he manages to muster up a terse expression. “Now I have to report an upset stomach?”
It’s a coy answer, and he sells it as effectively as he can. Ben doesn’t buy it. “This isn’t the stomach flu or food poisoning. You’re having nightmares.”
Five rolls his eyes. “They all know about the nightmares.”
Everyone knows about the nightmares. Five wakes up screaming sometimes; it’s sort of impossible to miss.
Ben is clearly trying to stage another intervention. Five almost can appreciate the sentiment, but he honestly doesn’t see the point. An intervention is designed to save someone. Five’s already lost. The only intervention needs to be for his siblings because they haven’t recognized the inevitability yet. “It’s more than the nightmares.”
It’s the surly attitude. It’s the outbursts. It’s the broken mirror in the bathroom. It’s his lack of an appetite and the way his ribs still protrude from his chest. It’s the way he’s not getting better when he should be.
His defenses flare. “So? What’s the point?”
“The point is that you’re struggling,” Ben says. “You’re struggling and you need help.”
Five huffs. “All I get is help. The training and the meals and the pampering -- I’m practically drowning in help.”
There’s a lilt to his voice at the end of that, but he holds onto the emotion just in time.
Ben shakes his head. He would sigh, if he were able. “But that’s not the help you need. Is it?”
It’s a stupid question; it’s an annoying question. In fact, it’s downright infuriating. “And tell me, please,” he says sarcastically while the washing machine rumbles behind him. “What help do I need?”
“I don’t think you have any idea,” Ben says. “And maybe we don’t either. But we’ll never figure anything out unless you ask.”
Five settles on incredulity now. You can’t kill a dead man, anyway. You can, however, mock him relentlessly. “Your psychological analysis is brilliant -- really insightful,” he says. “But that’s a diagnosis, not a cure. Because if I leave it up to you jackasses, I’ll get exercise and comfort food and games of Scrabble but nothing that actually addresses the real problem.”
Ben seems to see an opening; he seizes upon it. “And what is the problem, then?”
Logically, he thinks about playing coy again, but the impulse to answer otherwise is too strong. “Me!” he all but explodes, throwing his arms out. “I’m the problem. Not the torture or the isolation or the shock therapy -- me.”
He says it in a rush and the words are out before he has a chance to second guess them. It’s a truth he’s held close to him for quite some time now, a truth he’s probably known for years and decades before now. It’s a strange thing to state it so bald, and it’s impossible to say if it’s freeing or terrifying. It’s both.
Ben is not affected by the intensity of the outburst. If anything, it’s made him more sure of himself. “And that’s what you need to tell them. They can’t help you the way you need to be helped until they know what’s going on in your head. As powerful as we all are, none of us can read minds, Five. You have to tell us.”
He laughs, and it’s a horrible sound as it burns coming up his throat. It tastes as bad as the bile. “I should just tell you that?” he asks. “I should tell you that I don’t trust myself and that I think you should put a bullet in my head before I bring more harm to this family?”
It’s a horrible thing to say, and Five almost flinches at the starkness of his own words. He’s not thought about it like that, even if that’s what he’s known since coming back. It’s the reality that Pogo had dodged; it’s the truth his family is so patently ignoring. It’s the baseline of his reality, the one that he has refused to acknowledge, and it’s the missing piece to the puzzle that has skewed his whole existence.
Everyone wants to save Five, but Five might as well be back in that cell. He could be in the lab or the medical facility for all the difference it would make. It’s not even a matter of utility. It’s not that he’s weak right now. It’s that he’s fundamentally changed; it’s that the longer he’s here, the sooner it will be that he destroys them all.
It’s a surprise to him, in all honesty.
Ben’s face registers not a single ounce of surprise. “Yes,” he says. “That’s exactly what you need to tell them.”
That’s such stupid thing to say. It’s stupid and naive and shit, Five’s got the need to fight and no targets nearby to strike. He’s aimless is what he is. The Commission gave him a purpose he didn’t want and stole the one that matter. What’s left -- Five doesn’t know.
Five doesn’t even want to know.
The mere question of it makes him cut hysterically, and it’s all he can do not to destroy the laundry room more completely than he massacred the bathroom a day earlier.
“And for what?” Five asks, he demands. “So they can tell me I’m wrong? So they can pointlessly indulge in sentimentality?”
“You call it sentimentality,” Ben says. “But we call it perspective.”
Five steps back; he hasn’t even realized that he’s been advancing. Behind him, the machine is whirring on its spin cycle.
Ben doesn’t stop. “Right now, you’re scared and you’re hurting. You are going through the motions, but you don’t want to get better.”
Five’s jaw tightens “What? You’re taking your talking points from Klaus now?”
Ben shrugs. “We all see it, Five. We know that you’re not really trying to get better anymore.”
It feels like an accusation, even if Five’s not sure that it is. He wrinkles his nose in disdain. There’s no reason to deny it, but it still feels bitter to accept it. “So? What about it?”
“So,” Ben says with an emphatic nod of his head. “That’s not what’s best for you.”
It’s a concept that fundamentally doesn’t compute. It can’t compute. Five’s entire life has been a series of events that were decided not good for him. At age 13, he got stuck in the apocalypse and buried his siblings. Three decades of isolation later, he had been turned into a temporal assassin with no moral code whatsoever. He had broken his contract to save his family, thereby putting a target on his backside for the rest of time and through all of space. He’s gone and made a deal to save his family that resulted in a prolonged period of torture and behavior training. Oh, and just a little genetic manipulation on the side.
His life has trained him in many things, but nothing more relevant than this: life doesn’t want what’s best for him. At all.
In fact, if you want to make any conjecture, there’s far more evidence that the universe is actively plotting against Five. He’s not inclined to superstition, but luck is not something that he’s ever thought to be on his side.
Of course it isn’t what’s best for him.
When the hell has Five gotten anything that’s good for him?
He shakes his head, utterly unable to grasp the concept. “Who the hell cares?”
Ben’s face is earnest. “We do,” he replies. “We want to help you, Five. It’ll help the family if you’re okay, sure, but that’s not what we’re aiming for right now. We want to help you.”
Ben says it like this is something they’ve talked about. Five thinks about that, about his family meeting together, having important family discussions about how he’s not okay and how they can change that. He thinks about them sharing progress reports. He thinks about Luther leading the meeting while Diego outlines Five’s mediocre progress with exercise. Allison mentions how many times she’s had to nag Five to get dressed this week, and Klaus tells them that it takes time, that Five’s not ready. Ben pops in and out and Vanya is wound so tight that Five can practically feel her vibrate in the notion of it alone.
He wonders how long it’s been since Luther worked on the Academy. He wonders if Diego is letting security lapse. He wonders if Allison is missing visitation with her daughter, and if Klaus finds being around Five to be triggering. He wonders if Ben sees how close Five is to joining him, and he wonders if it’s only a matter of time before the stress of the situation makes Vanya implode.
And he’s back to the apocalypse.
This time, it’s Five who causes the apocalypse.
He blinks rapidly as the buzzer dings on the washer. He startles, trying to bring his staggered breaths back under control.
It’s a lot; it’s too much. “So, what?” he asks, voice thick with accusation now. “You’d risk the safety of everyone for me? When you know who I am and the things I’ve done? You’d willingly make that trade?”
Ben doesn’t flinch, the bastard. Doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes,” he says, completely without reservation. “That’s what family is, isn’t it? And if we had any doubts, it was your plan that taught us otherwise. The family first. The family, whole and together. That was your plan, Five. We’re just following along.”
The surge of rage is almost more than he knows what to do with. That’s the point, though, isn’t it. Five doesn’t know what to do.
All his plotting and planning and math and he doesn’t know what to do.
“And you think I have to listen to you?” he asks, stepping forward now, staring Ben down. “You’re dead. Your opinion is irrelevant because if you had any common sense, you’d still be alive and not haunting us like the ghost we never asked for! So I’m supposed to listen to you? I’m supposed to stand here and listen to you preach at me? You don’t know anything.”
He steps closer still, and his heart is racing, his palms are sweating. The autonomic response is taking over now, and Five can only follow the lead of his DNA.
“You’re insignificant,” he says, jabbing his finger forward as he steps closer. “You’re stupid and weak. No wonder Dad made you Number Six. Look at you. Chasing after your siblings because you don’t even know how to be dead.”
He closes in now, close enough to see the lines around Ben’s eyes. He doesn’t know how ghosts age; maybe the ghost is nothing but a projection. Maybe Ben is who they have created to fill the void in their family. Maybe Ben is the manifestation of their subconscious need.
That makes Five hate him more.
“So shut the hell up!” he says, and he impulsively reaches out to shove his brother. “And leave me alone with your sniveling sentiment!”
Ben doesn’t fall back, and Five kicks at him. His foot connects with the wall instead.
With a growl, he runs out of articulate things to say. He watches as Ben almost braces himself for the attack he’ll never feel.
Physically, anyway.
Five punches, and shoves. He reaches out, hands to encircle the throat, but they close on air. The forward momentum leaves him off balance and he kicks again. When he punches again, this time his fist slams into the wall, and he can feel the cuts on his break open, splitting wider as blood seeps out. He knows in an instant that he’ll need stitches; it’s also possible he’s broken his hand in several places.
Needless to say, that effective ends the fight.
It’s only as he staggers back, gasping and holding his freshly injured hand that he realizes that it’s never been much of a fight. Ben’s got no substance; Five’s effectively been fighting the air.
If that’s not a terrible metaphor for the pathetic state of his existence, then Five doesn’t know what is.
“Look,” Ben says, as if Five hasn’t just thrown a temper tantrum like a child. “I know you’re struggling with everything, so you do get a pass on that, all of it.”
Five looks up at him, and his eyes are inexplicably wet. The pain, probably. A pathological response to physical stimuli.
Ben reaches down as if to touch him, and Five swears that when his hand brushes against his shoulder, he can feel it. That’s ridiculous, naturally. This whole thing is ridiculous.
“That’s why we’re not asking you to get better. We’re not asking you to have a plan or to do anything right. That will come with time,” Ben says.
Five chokes on a laugh. It might be a cry. “You think?”
Ben shrugs. “I know,” he says. “But we do want one thing from you in all of this, just one thing.”
One thing.
He makes it sound so easy, but Five knows it’s not. Five knows nothing is easy, not for him, not in this life.
“Just keep breathing,” Ben says. “Just keeping doing what we say, stay with us. I know it might not sound like a lot, but it’s more than you think. For right now, as messed up as this is, it’s everything.”
Five drops his head, closing his eyes. The pain. There’s so much pain.
“Hey,” Ben says, beckoning Five to look up again. When Five does, Ben nods. “That part’s non-negotiable. Do you understand?”
The answer is no, Five doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why he’s here or really how he got to this place. He doesn’t understand why his equations never showed him this. He doesn’t understand how a plan that made so much sense is so hard to live out in practice. He doesn’t understand why his family bothers. He doesn’t even understand why he’s still here, still doing what they say.
Ben’s gaze is serious. “Promise me,” he says. “You have to promise me.”
Five breathes and closes his eyes again.
What else can he do?
-o-
Five complies.
Is it love? Is it commitment? Is it gratitude? Is it part of a plan? Is it his DNA?
He stares blankly at the equations scribbled on the wall as Mom stitches him up in the morning.
“My, my,” she tuts, applying antiseptic. “Some of these are quite deep.”
She has no idea.
She smiles as she reaches for her needle. “Don’t worry, dear,” she soothes. “Nothing’s broken.”
Nothing, she says.
It might as well mean everything.
-o-
Five tries.
That’s what survival is, after all. The mere effort to live. You do whatever it takes. You eat cockroaches. You become a killer. You travel through time.
And sometimes you do as you’re told.
Sometimes you just keep breathing.
In and out, in and out.
It’s so simple that Five isn’t sure why he finds it so completely hard. Because it is hard. It’s really, really hard. Every breath in, he feels like the walls are closing in. Every breath out, and he fights the urge to murder someone.
For the sake of the promise he’s been compelled to give, he tries to do as they say. He does the exercises. He plays the games. He eats the food. When he’s alone in his room, he sits down and tries to do his equations, but with his damaged hands, it’s too hard to hold the chalk. Besides, he still shakes when he tries to still, and the numbers all come out wrong.
He fares better with reading, if only that it seems like he’s faring less poorly. He still can’t hold a train of thought to make it through a page, but as long as he stares at a book long enough and turn the pages periodically, everyone seems to think things are fine.
This may be true. Five doesn’t feel qualified to say.
All he knows is that a few nights later, when he goes to sneak a snack from the kitchen, he hears a rustling sound. He flies into such a rage that he’s literally ripped a rat in half before he realizes what he’s done. It was an overreaction, of course. The fact that he defaults to blind murder is probably not ideal, however.
Five throws the rat out back in the trash when Vanya finds him.
“Ben said you disappeared,” she says, and it’s obvious that she’s been woken from sleep.
“Yeah, just practicing my skills,” he says, and he thinks he musters up something that resembles a smile. “Didn’t mean to worry anyone, but I was hungry. I’m still five pounds below weight, so I thought no one would object.”
It almost sounds convincing. He almost sounds like himself.
Vanya frowns. “Five, is that blood?”
He looks down. His hands are still coated in it. It’s staining his pajamas.
She steps forward, eyes wide now. “Five?”
“It’s not mine,” he says, knowing that won’t make it better. Then again, nothing makes anything better. You can get everything right and still get everything wrong.
She reaches out, hand hovering close to him.
There is no more need to pretend. He sighs, resigning himself to the inevitable. “We are down one rat from the mansion, however.”
When she meets his gaze, she’s horrified, but trying not to show it. “How did you kill it?”
Five shrugs, as if to soften what he says next. “I may have ripped it apart with my bare hands,” he says. “Honestly, that part’s a blur. I heard a noise and attacked. The next thing I knew, there was dead rat everywhere.”
It’s not a pretty confession, but then, what confession is. He wonders if he should have kept it from her for her sake, but his judgment is suspect. There’s an off chance that maybe this will show her who he is, that maybe she’ll finally realize why all of this work is futile. Maybe she’ll finally realize that Five doesn’t belong here, that he’s never going to belong here.
But instead, something different coalesces on her face. “Okay,” she says, and she nods toward the kitchen. “Let’s go figure this out.”
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN
PART EIGHT
PART NINE
PART TEN
PART ELEVEN
PART TWELVE
PART THIRTEEN
PART FOURTEEN
PART FIFTEEN
PART SIXTEEN
-o-
It takes him nearly half an hour, walking and wheezing the last half. Diego stays with him stride for stride, and when Five is nearly too weak to go on, Diego half carries him the whole way home and they cross the threshold together. Diego tells him he did good, but that’s a lie. Five did horrible in every possible way. His performance, his attitude. Even his ability to stand up for himself was a pitiful showing.
Five curses his compliance all the way up to his attic bedroom, and he damns his DNA as he changes into something not soaked through with seat. He’s sore as he gets changed, moving like an old man.
“You are an old man,” Five mutters crossly.
He starts to button up his fresh shirt. “It never felt like this before.”
“Before is a relative term of little significant,” he argues.
His fingers are shaking so bad that the task is nearly impossible to complete. “It’s still an important distinction.”
“There is simply no precedent for living 58 years and being inside a teenage body,” he posits. “Not to mention surviving torture. Even if you do want to make the distinction, the comparison is false. The comparative points are not equivalent values.”
“Are we honestly saying that three decades in the apocalypse is worse than a limited period of time in Commission custody?” he asks, smoothing out his shirt front.
“Again, the assumption is that time is the most relevant factor.”
“No,” Five says, reaching for one of his ties. “The assumption is that it’s the apocalypse. Why are you acting like a few tests and electrical shocks is so much worse?”
“And you think it’s one or the other? Time is cumulative. The experiences are not in isolation.”
Five stops thoughtfully as he loops the necktie around. “Are you suggesting that mental capacity was already compromised prior to this incident and that recent events have merely highlighted a mental decline that was already markedly in progress?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Five stops, looking at himself in the mirror. It’s only then that he realizes he’s the only person there.
In short, he’s talking to himself.
No mannequin. No projections of his siblings.
Just a prolonged, philosophical conversation out loud while he debates whether or not he’s crazy.
Funny enough, he thinks he answered the question.
Just not probably the way he’d hoped.
-o-
Needless to say, when Allison comes to hang out with him the next day, Five’s already in a foul mood. He’s angry, restless and tired, and Allison wants to play Scrabble.
“That’s the one game you always liked playing as kids,” she cajoles. “You said it was the only one that required pure intellect.”
Did he say that? Did he really?
Funny, Five hardly remembers being 13.
The first or second time around.
It is unclear if this is a good or bad thing, but the fact that he can’t remember is annoying. He scowls in principle. “Games are a waste of time.”
“Games are fun,” she replies without missing a beat. “Fun isn’t a waste of time. We need it in order to stay sane.”
It’s very likely that Allison is speaking in broad terms and that her comment is not intended as a slight. But Five feels his hackles raise, and he has no impulse to check them as a reasonable person might. “Pretty sure that a board game isn’t going to fix me,” he says, surly as ever. “It’s just your attempt to pass the time so you don’t have to think about how insane I might actually be.”
Allison sighs, putting the box down. “Or I think it might be fun to do something with my brother. We’ve all spent too much time apart. Quality time matters. I don’t take it for granted.”
She says it like she says it: reasonable and mature and it’s beyond frustrating. Because Five is almost twice her age, and she’s had the luxury of embracing sentimentality, and she doesn’t have a clue, all right? She doesn’t have a damn clue what quality time means. She doesn’t know about three decades in the apocalypse. She doesn’t know about days in an interrogation room. She doesn’t know about weeks strapped to a bed or closed in a bleak cell with nothing.
Time is something Five understand acutely, in a way that none of his siblings ever will. They think a few hops through time means something. They think a year tracing his trail is meaningful. They think it’s safe and controlled and manageable.
In short, his siblings don’t know anything.
He makes a face, sour like he’s sucking on a lemon. “If you’re so interested in quality time, then why don’t you bother spending it with your daughter? I thought the custody agreement finally came through.”
He takes some satisfaction by the momentary look of surprise. Some things are supposed to be off limits for all of them. No one blinks at the fact that he’s been in love with a mannequin. People don’t mention the moon around Luther. You’re not supposed to talk about the apocalypse around Vanya.
And with Claire, you’re not supposed to bring up Claire unless you’re saying how much you want to meet her. That’s the unspoken assumption.
Five rips it to shreds with one precisely smug look.
Allison is a true professional, however. She recovers herself quickly. “It has,” she says. “But Claire’s in school right now. Patrick and I agreed we would wait until the end of the year before changing things.”
This answer is entirely too reasonable. Five all but sneers. “So you’ll let, what, months slip by? What about that quality time?”
Five is upping his game, but Allison is rising to the bait right now. “That’s my point, though, isn’t it?” she says. “Quality time isn’t about your own selfish desires. It’s not about what’s logical or functional. It’s about what’s best for the other person. Claire has a life in California, and I’m trying to respect that. Just like you have a life here -- an actual life, Five -- and I’m trying to respect that. And I want you to respect it, too.”
It’s damn near condescending, and Five’s endured too much, too long. He shakes his head. “It’s nothing but your misplaced motherly instinct,” he says. “You should just leave and spend time with Claire. Unless you’re afraid that after all this time, she doesn’t want you after all.”
He’s going for the kill now, right for the jugular. It’s his training, isn’t it? His instinct.
But Allison is ever steady. “You’re mad, but not at me.”
“I’m mad that I’ve got decades of experience and you want to ply me with board games like I’m truly a child,” he says. “You want to pretend like we can laugh and bond over a five letter word with a z in the middle like it’s going to fix everything that’s happened. You’re an idiot. You talk about quality time, but what quality time can I get with you.”
The angrier he gets, the calmer Allison becomes. “You’re mad at life, Five. You’re mad that you had to make that deal and that your plan came at such a high cost,” she says. “You’re mad that you suffered, you endured, and you don’t know what it was for sometimes. You’re mad at the Commission. You’re mad at us. You’re probably even mad at yourself for being weak or something. You’re mad at everything. I just happen to be here right now.”
He’s fuming, cheeks outright burning now. His anger is precarious, however. He feels the edges of his self control slipping, and he grapples with his emotions to pull it back in before he can’t predict the outcome. “If that’s what you have to tell yourself,” he mutters coolly.
“It is,” she says, resolute. “But not because I think I’m a bad mother. I have to tell myself that to remember that you’re still my brother, no matter what, and I still love you.”
This time, his stomach turns so hard that he feels like he might actually be physically ill. What does she mean by that? What can she possibly mean? Affection is not a form of manipulation the Commission tried on him, but he wonders if it might have been more effective. He wonders if he could fold like a damn house of cards for love and connection. All those years alone in the apocalypse, and the thing that saved him was saving his family. Weeks (months?) in isolation at the Commission home office, and it had been an imagined version of his family that had kept him sane.
It’s easy enough to deduce, therefore, that Five is an individual starved for love. It is not so atypical to think that such an offer would be compelling to him in a way that torture isn’t.
It’s impossible to say where genetic manipulation plays into this, and Five shakes his head, face set. “If it’s so hard, then why bother at all?”
The words are vindictive, spat at her like a challenge.
Allison rises. “You of all people know that just because something is easy doesn’t mean it’s worthwhile.”
He shrugs caustically. “Maybe I was wrong.”
She is steady. She is not the droning monotony of an interrogation. She is not the coerced screams of a medical experiment. She’s not the shock of obedience from behavior training. She is not a locked door of an isolation cell.
She’s his sister.
“You weren’t,” she replies simply.
He recoils physically, more than before. He’s angry and he’s frustrated; he doesn’t know what he is. “What do you want me to do?”
“Play the damn game,” she says, letting her voice cut along the edge of her compassion. “Be a person for awhile.”
His chest flares out defiantly. “I don’t really want to.”
She makes a face, a noise like a scoff in the back of her throat. “And you think I do?”
For some reason, that hurts. “Then what the hell is the point of any of this?”
“Family’s the point,” she replies. She gathers a breath and lets it out hard. “Sometimes you have to choose love even when you don’t feel it. Even when it’s tiring or hard or frustrating. It’s a choice you make. It’s volition.”
He purses his lips, ever skeptical. “And you think I can make that choice by playing a board game?”
Her expression eases, lips quirked up in something of a smile. “Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
With that Five faces the inevitability of it all. He looks at Allison; he looks at the board game.
And then he complies.
-o-
Five wins all three rounds they play, though Allison’s vocabulary has expanded significantly since the time they last played. He almost smiles by the end of it, when he finishes off the worst of his letters with the word zygote for the win. It’s a little like satisfaction, and Allison grins at him.
“See?” she says. “That wasn’t so bad.”
The statement is pointless due to its total lack of independent measures. It’s relativistic. Of course it’s not so bad. How can anything be bad when Five has the apocalypse and the Commission as a measuring stick.
She packs up the board. “You didn’t need to throw such a fit,” she muses. “Next time, maybe we can skip the drama.”
There’s no actual reason why this irks him. She’s being nice. She’s being playful. Banter is a thing they do, and Five’s never shied away from that. But it wears on him. Everything wears on him. The assumptions, the expectations, the inevitability. It can be good natured, but Allison is still telling him what to do, dictating the limits and boundaries of his existence, and Five’s about ready to explode.
He is not, however, ready to tell her that. It’s too likely to be a conversation that will be emotional. Moreover, he knows she won’t understand. None of them understand. Five’s not even sure he understands it himself when he gets right down to it.
If he can just follow orders.
If he can just toe the line.
He flinches, almost expecting a jolt of electricity.
When it doesn’t come, he tightens his jaw and gets up. “No drama,” he says flatly. “But don’t assume that I’m going to willing play this with you.”
Allison looks disappointed. “You had fun--”
“You told me what to do,” he says. “I humored you. That’s all.”
“Five--”
But he’s not listening. He turns on his heels, stalking out of the room with his hands shoved into his pockets. They’re balled tight into fists, and he is relieved that she doesn’t call after him. He hates to think that he might be compelled to comply with that request as well.
He’s out of his bedroom and down the hall before he realizes that he doesn’t know where he’s going. The novelty of going had seemed like an apt enough solution, but Five can kick and scream about being told what to do without acknowledging that he doesn’t exactly have any other ideas.
His pulse quickens, and it’s something like panic. He doesn’t want them to know how aimless he is. He doesn’t want them to know that the power of his DNA has circumvented his free will. He doesn’t want them to know that he’s as lost as he is scared. There’s nothing pragmatic about it, but Five’s not quite at the level where he can care about that.
Instead, he ducks into the first vacant room he finds. It’s his bathroom, and he’s quite relieved suddenly for the unnecessary number of such rooms in the mansion. He closes the door and locks it behind him before almost collapsing against the side of he sink. He takes a long moment to breathe, eyes squeezed shut against the pounding in his skull. He’s half convinced that if he opens his eyes, he’ll be back in the cell.
Or worse.
His entire life is an inevitability now. With nothing else to do, he finally opens his eyes. The bathroom is dimly light, natural light from the window scarce as the night comes on. He can get away with going to the bathroom, but being here in the dark will attract attention. After being alone so long, you might think that attention is what Five craves. And maybe he does; he just has no idea what to do with it.
He has no idea what to do with himself.
Sighing, he reaches over and turns on the light.
A simple flick of the switch.
There’s a pop and a flash; Five braces but his scream is caught in his throat. Terror surges, and his body sings with the electricity. He waits for the pain, clenching his teeth together in anticipation for doing it wrong.
Doing what wrong? It doesn’t matter. Five’s doing everything wrong.
Another second passes, and it occurs to Five belatedly that nothing is happening.
Opening his eyes, he realizes the obvious facts.
He’s still in the bathroom.
It’s still dark despite the fact that lightswitch is up.
The fuse has blown.
Five is fine.
Five is fine.
Five is fine?
Except for the fact that Five is having a flashback in the bathroom.
No, he’s having a panic attack.
He considers it with a strange objectivity. His heart is pounding, his palms are sweating. His ears are ringing and his vision is white around the edges. He’s about to keel over, he’s breathing so hard, and his skin is burning from the expectancy alone.
It’s coming; it’s not coming.
If it doesn’t come, Five will manifest it on his own.
It’s evitable, right?
It’s written in his DNA.
Five is helpless, and he doesn’t have a plan for any of this.
With that, the rush of feeling overwhelms him, and the objectivity is replaced by the sheer force of his anxiety. He rails when he breathes now, desperate high pitched noise as he blinks against blind eyes. He’s not in a bathroom anymore; he’s in a lab. He’s strapped to a table, and there are electrodes pressed into his temples. Pavlov’s dog, he thinks.
But they broke him, the clerk exclaims.
I bet you miss those schoolboy shorts now, don’t you? the Handler coos.
And Five gets to his knees, he kisses the hand, he follows orders, and none of it changes anything. The shock galvanizes him, and he’s only vaguely aware of his own scream as he slams his fists on the counter. The anger wells up now, like a riptide that pulls him under. Frantic, he pounds until his fists are raw, and he kicks at the cabinet hard enough to feel the wood splinter. It’s only when he lashes out against the mirror, shards cutting into the broken knuckles, that the whole thing shatters.
The mirror breaks, a thousand pieces as it rains down. He stands, staring at himself in the remnants, and his image is refracted and broken too. It sobers him, for what it’s worth. The memory fades and he finds himself back in the here and now. His hands are bleeding; the bathroom is ruined. He hears his siblings yelling in the distance, feet clamoring on the stairs.
The splintered parts of himself in the shattered reflection are, ironically, the most recognizable version of himself.
-o-
Needless to say, the others are not thrilled about Five’s performance in the bathroom. He doesn’t attempt to explain it, but to be fair, they hardly ask. In some ways, Five figures it’s probably self explanatory. It doesn’t matter if it’s specifically a flashback. They all know by now that Five’s a mess.
Their mother treats his hands while Allison and Vanya watch. The others are tending to the bathroom, probably picking up the pieces while discussing what to do next. They probably wonder if Five’s a danger to himself or others. They’re probably talking about psychological treatment, medications and interventions.
This should be concerning, but Five finds it decidedly uninteresting. It doesn’t actually matter, not like they think it will. Five doesn’t think it will fix him at any rate.
With that in mind, he goes to bed with hands bandaged like paws and two pain pills.
Five complies.
Because of course he does.
-o-
The stupid thing is that Five’s embarrassed about it, which means he’s angry about being embarrassed, and he’s ashamed to admit that he’s angry, which only serves to make him more irritable. Five has very few coping mechanisms in life that don’t involve alcohol, coffee, violence and sarcasm. Since three of those options are not available, you would think he would settle on the fourth, but upon further reflection, he’s honestly not sure what’s available to him and what’s not.
The end result is that Five spends much of the morning being quiet. He shuffles about the house obediently and does tasks upon command. When asked a question, he answers it in a perfunctory fashion. His siblings seem intent on keeping him downstairs and in so-called public spaces. It’s not clear to Five what they think this will accomplish, but he can find no willpower to disoblige them.
This means Five spends a lot of time sitting in the living room or pulled up to the kitchen table. He can hear the others coming and going sometimes, moving supplies up and down the stairs as they attempt to fix the mess Five made in the bathroom. The siblings not in charge of renovations take turns with Five. This is much as it has been since his return home, only they respond to his silence with silence as well.
It’s all very awkward.
Until it’s Klaus’ turn.
Klaus, after all, doesn’t know how to be quiet. It is probably not possible for him, not that he’s ever actually tried. Therefore, when Klaus takes over in the late afternoon, he approaches Five with a long monologue about how hard bathroom renovations are.
This is, of course, ridiculous. There’s no way Klaus has done anything productive concerning the bathroom renovation. Even Five in his current state would be more help than Klaus, though he thinks it’s probably telling that he’s not being allowed close.
At any rate, Five endures Klaus ramblings for quite some time until his brother, yawns, rubs his stomach and asks, “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”
Five hasn’t thought about it; it’s actually very hard for him to tell whether or not the pit in his stomach is related to food or just a new state of being for him. He’s had a weird relationship with food for awhile now -- scavenging for survival for decades will do that to you -- and being nearly starved to death in a cell apparently only makes it worse.
But more than that, Five is growing restless. He’s done nothing today, and that’s been mostly his choice, but he’s not sure he understands what a choice even is anymore. He’s not sure he believes in volition or free will, at least not where his own actions are concerned. It leaves him with a vague sense of dread, the desire to act without any grasp of what the impetus for such action should be.
The tension leaves him at loose ends, and he feels like he’s all frayed edges. He’s a tinderbox.
Klaus’ jabber, by contrast, is like a match.
It’s just a matter of time until something ignites.
There’s a part of Five that knows he should do something about it, but he can’t come up with a plan that makes any sense, so he follows Klaus into the kitchen, sits at the table, and watches as his brother attempts to make a batch of spaghetti noodles with a jar of sauce. Klaus jabbers the whole time, leaving Five to listen with rapidly deteriorating patience as the afternoon wears on.
Somehow, Klaus manages to make the spaghetti, and he warms up the sauce with a sufficient order of things. He talks about different types of pasta for awhile, and then he talks about different types of stoves, and for a period of time he talks about the time he tried to smoke a dried piece of angel hair pasta with questionable results (as he was already high at the time it wasn’t easy to deduce the effect except to say that it was distinctive).
With each anecdote, Five’s restlessness continues to mount. By the time Klaus is serving two heaping portions onto plates, Five is either going to shove Klaus’ face into the hot burner of the stove or use a butter knife to cut into his own jugular to make this end. This seems extreme on some level, Five knows, but he can’t quite reach that level. Where he’s at, it actually seems rather restrained, and it’s a bit of a struggle for him to decide which option is right and which one he prefers.
See, that’s the advantage to being locked in a cell. When you’re stripped of all power and control, there are minimal decisions to make. The simple choice to take another breath is about as important as it gets. That’s not really an asset, but Five’s hard pressed to count it as a problem as he grapples with uncertainty now.
Oblivious, Klaus serves Five with a beaming smile. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he says, picking up his own plate and plunking it down across from Five. “Two brothers, sharing dinner. And it’s homemade, too. That always feels like something, doesn’t it? An accomplishment? I had a lot of days when feeding myself was hard enough, so actually cooking? This is adulting, isn’t it? I’m actually an adult.”
Five says nothing. Out of obligation, he picks up the fork he’s been provided. The expectancy is suffocating; it is also the only thing that keeps him moderately functional.
Klaus takes what appears to be a savory bite and he smiles. “That doesn’t really taste that good,” he says. He looks at his plate ruefully. “I really thought it’d be better.”
Five looks at his place and moves his fork. It’s a detached process while he winds spaghetti onto it, and it tastes like rubber in his mouth.
The consolation is that rubber is better than ash.
Across from him, Klaus is still disconcerted. “I mean, it’s still satisfying, making your own food,” he says, as if trying to salvage his efforts. “And it’s relaxing. I mean, watching water boil. That’s amazing. I mean, I used to think that, you know, back when I was high or drunk or whatever, but it is. And we all need more ways to relax, right?”
Five swallows with a wince. The food has no taste and the kitchen is a mess. His brother is recalling the nuances of boiling water while high. Five knows his perspective is irrevocably skewed, but he’s not sure he would classify any of these elements as situationally relaxing. This is an opinion, of course, and Five not sure if it’s an accurate reflection of anything and he keeps his mouth shut.
Klaus barely notices. He takes the silence as an unfettered invitation to continue. “I mean, think about it. Cooking is quiet. And not just quiet, but it’s purposeful. Intentional.” He holds up a finger, as if this is something he knows quite a bit about. “Intentionality is instructive. It adds value to life. It builds up.”
Five stops short of putting his fork back into the pasta. He feels moderately convicted, and he’s not sure if that’s Klaus’ fault or not. “You mean it’s something that doesn’t involve home destruction,” he says, and it comes out pointed instead of uncertain. Maybe it’s pointed because it’s uncertain. Maybe it’s pointed because Five doesn’t know how to be a good human being.
Klaus doesn’t take any of those possible implications. Instead, he looks vaguely stricken. “Well, I mean, sure, I guess,” he says, making it clear that he hadn’t been thinking about that. “When you put it like that.”
Five starts to feel perturbed. It occurs to him that this is the first time the sensation has reached a breaking point all day long. Usually it happens sooner and more often. Usually he’s had multiple outburst, lobbied countless insults and sulked most of the day. You might call his attitude today contrition. Five suspects that’s too generous a description. It’s more likely to be shock or embarrassment.
“I do,” he says, the emotions coming to a boil. He thinks about Klaus’ strange fondness for boiling water, and he doesn’t think this qualifies. It’s no matter; Klaus’ obliviousness is the problem right now. Five’s literally destroyed a bathroom and Klaus acts like it’s incidental. Like the bathroom is expendable. Like Five’s actions are without consequence.
Like it’s all par for the course where Five is concerned.
No one wants to talk about it, do they? No one wants to say it out loud. Everyone wants to pretend like it didn’t happen, like none of this happened. Like Five didn’t happen.
That could be comforting -- the idea of nonexistence has undeniable appeal -- but the instinct to survive fights against it, and Five is overwhelmed within seconds.
Klaus has sobered -- that never fails to be ironic for Five -- and he blinks over at Five arnest. “Okay,” he says slowly. Then he gesticulates. “I mean, I get why you’d feel like that, I do--”
Five’s face contorts. With the indecision, rage mounts. “And why don’t you?” he asks spitefully. “Why don’t my antics in the bathroom matter to you at all?”
What answer does Five want? Does he want their pity? Does he want their concern? Such responses would be insulting and diminutive, but is pretending it didn’t happen better? Is this where Five is now? That he has to pick between their pity and their ignorance? Is it better to be seen as a child -- or better not to be seen at all?
This isn’t part of the plan.
But who is Five kidding -- there is no plan.
“It’s a bathroom,” Klaus says. “I mean, as long as you’re okay, then I don’t see what other response I should be having.”
“You think I’m okay?” Five asks, and his voice rises. It’s funny; it’s hilarious. Five chokes on a bitter laugh. “Do you really?”
Klaus backtracks quickly, holding his hands up. “No, I mean, physically,” he says. “What you’ve been through, there are going to be ups and downs, and we get that -- I get that. But you seem a little more upset than usual right now--”
He’s placating. He’s delaying. He’s equivocating. Five shakes his head with a snarl. “I’m very upset.”
Klaus leans forward at that. “You don’t have to be -- we’re not mad, none of us,” he says as reassuringly as he can. “I mean, have you seen this old place? It’s in desperate need of an update, so we should really be thanking you--”
Five shakes his head again, more vindictively. His heart is starting to pound. Fight or flight instincts are setting in, and Five struggles to come to the right conclusions. He has no idea. “This isn’t about home renovation,” he says, and he’s starting to shake a little now. The emotion. It’s the emotion. “This isn’t even a little bit about home renovation.”
Klaus nods quickly. “I know,” he says. “I do. I know that.”
Five breathes out, hard and fast. He’s squeezing the fork in his hands tight, so tight that he can feel the metal almost cutting into his skin. “It’s about me,” he says. “It’s about me losing control.”
Klaus is going a little pale. He looks sorry. “I know,” he says, quieter than before. It’s compassion, Five supposes. But he doesn’t know how to separate compassion from pity. He doesn’t deserve either.
Recklessly, he inhales sharply before his control slips. “And you really don’t want to talk about it? You want to sit here and talk about bad pasta and boiling water and not the fact that I totally lost my shit and no one wants to say it?”
Klaus’ shoulders slump. “Five,” he says like his heart is breaking. “Look, it doesn’t help, talking about it. I mean, it will, someday. But not until you’re ready. It’s like being an addict, right? Until you make that choice to be sober, nothing anyone says or does will matter. You have to make the choice, though. And we’re just waiting for you to make it, is all. We want you to choose getting better.”
The compassion is too much now. Five is drowning in it. He flails in the only way he can to keep his head above the proverbial waters. “Oh, right,” he mocks. “Make the choice. Like you did?”
Klaus has come too far to be so easily deflected. He straightens a little at the implication, but he nods. “Yes, like I did.”
Five knows Klaus fought for his sobriety. He knows it hasn’t been an easy choice. He knows, and he doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. He doesn’t know how to care. “You didn’t make the choice,” he sneers. “The apocalypse did.”
It’s a bit more pointed that Klaus has been expecting. There’s a flicker of doubt on his face. “That was an extenuating factor, sure,” he says. “But it was still me -- it had to be -- or it wouldn’t have stuck. If I hadn’t made the choice, I would have gone right back to my old habits when it was over. I choose to be sober; I choose to be okay.”
There’s something mature about that. Klaus has grown, he’s changed. It’s not just about his powers, though they are a reflection of it all. It’s about Klaus, finding and embracing the person he’s supposed to be.
It’s such a stark contrast to Five, who has gone through all this and come out on the other end as lost as ever.
Or maybe he’s not lost. Maybe he knows. And maybe he hates the answer.
Denial is the first stage of addiction. He’s not addicted to the apocalypse anymore. Maybe now he’s addicted to his family, and his own DNA is rebelling.
Five doesn’t know.
There are no equations, no calculations. No plans.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
He’s like a wounded animal, scared and confused and the only thing he knows to do if attack.
Even if the first thing that reaches out is a helping hand.
Especially if it’s a helping hand.
“Oh, please,” he says, the words dripping with venom. “You’re barely sober, and we all know it hangs by a thread. That’s why you have to cook. Why you have to knit and sing and scrapbook. Because if you had a single second of downtime, you’d be right back out on the street, using your inheritance to get wasted again. So you don’t get to to sit here, smug and self righteous, acting like you know, like you’ve got it figured out. Because the last person who should be offering anyone -- even me -- life advice is you”
To punctuate his point, he slams the fork down prongs first. It lodges into the table’s surface.
Klaus swallows hard, looking from the quivering fork back to Five. “I know,” he says. “I know it’s tenuous. I know it all hangs by a string for me. That’s what makes it strong, what I do. That’s why the bad pasta and misshapen scarves matter. Those are how I’m going to stay sober, they’re how I’m going to be okay. What about you, Five? What are you going to do to stay sober? Shatter mirrors? It’s dramatic, I’ll give you that, but it’s a little much, don’t you think?”
Klaus is a nice brother more often than not, but it’s foolish to think he’s not as capable as the rest of them. He instinct to go for the jugular is almost as keen as Five’s. He just knows how to hold his punches better.
That said, he goes for it now.
And he lands the blow.
For Five, there’s no more internal debate. There’s just the hardwired response, deep in his DNA.
With a clatter, he pushes back his chair. He picks up his plate and stocks over to the trash, dumping the whole pile of noodles and sauce in. Then he dumps the plate unceremoniously into the sink and turns back to Klaus, fuming.
“You’re still useless to me, sober or not,” he says.
Klaus sighs. He presses his lips together and tweaks his eyebrows as if to says what the hell. “Whatever,” he says. “But you still have to eat or you will literally have everyone in this house down here watching you until you eat.”
Five’s breathing halts for a moment.
Klaus shrugs, sliding his plate across to Five’s vacant spot. “You can have mine,” he says, and he makes a show of getting to his feet. He smiles, a little brighter now. “Which means I get to make more. And we both know by now how much I love cooking.”
Five watches as Klaus half dances his way back to the fridge, opening it as he hums a tune and produces a few ingredients. He holds up a bag of frozen chicken breasts curiously. “We have to thaw these, right?”
Five gapes at him.
Klaus shrugs at the chicken and makes a pointed nod to Five’s plate. “And you, brother of mine,” he singsongs. “Better get eating.”
-o-
History repeats itself.
Five complies.
He eats dinner until his plate his empty and his stomach hurts. He eats until he’s angry and tired and barely restrained.
Five complies.
Because what’s meant to be is meant to be.
-o-
The only cost of compliance is the burning fury in his gut and the trembling of his fingers as he does as he’s told. These are emotions; they come and go, coming with more frequency than going by this point.
Oh, and also: the nightmares.
Logically, the nightmares are partially due to the nature of how he is trying to repress his memories. To consider anything short of PTSD would be ridiculous at this point, though he figures an actual diagnosis will do little to alleviate any of the problems. Treatment is questionable, as best he can figure. Therapy and medication are the only options that his siblings haven’t tried yet, and Five sees no reason to give them an indication that such things are what he wants.
He doesn’t know what he wants exactly, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t want that.
That said, he would like to stop having the nightmares.
Five rarely gets what he wants, however. Over the years, he has learned to stop expecting it. But hope is a cruel sort of thing, especially when it refuses to die when it should. This is probably why the nightmares always catch him by surprise, why he still wakes up crying, a scream caught in his throat.
That night, after his conversation with Klaus, he wakes up crying so hard he can barely breathe. He ends up retching, the contents of his too-full stomach all over the front of himself as he feels the burn of electricity and the slice of the blade. The lonely light of his cell is burned into his eyelids and the clerk says, “Just answer the question, Five.”
He throws up again, tasting the acid as it burns in his nose. He can taste it, thick on his tongue, and he remembers the candy on the Handler’s desk, candy designed to capture the essence of a decade. This would be the one for the apocalypse -- cloying and gritty, like smoke and ash clogging your nostrils and constricting your throat.
With another heave, he brings up nothing but bile, and he blinks his eyes, panting as he catches his breath.
He knows it was a nightmare.
He knows it’s not real.
Ben hovers by the bed. “Do you want me to get someone?”
Five exhales, pushing back the soiled sheets as he gingerly throws his legs over the side of the bed. “No,” he says curtly, gathering up the mess. He took off the heaviest of the bandages after washing up before bed, and there is nothing but small bandages covering the worst of the cuts. “I’ve got it.”
He balls up the items and puts them on the floor. He can still taste the vomit, and he grimaces as he unbuttons his pajamas. His fingers ache as he pulls against the healing wounds as he drops the dirty pajamas on the floor with the rest and finds himself something fresh out of the closet and put it on. He struggles with the buttons, but there’s no need for him to complain. Pain is inconsequential. He gathers up the things again.
“I need to wash these,” he announces.
Ben is right behind him now. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get someone?”
“No reason,” Five says. “You can come or you can stay, but I’m doing the laundry.”
He walks out of the room, and he doesn’t have to look back to know that Ben is following him. “Five--” Ben starts.
Five shakes his head. “It was just a nightmare,” he says. “Well, a nightmare and Klaus’ cooking.”
Ben doesn’t say anything as they traipse through the halls together.
Just a nightmare, he tells himself, breathing through the smell. Just a nightmare.
Is it a small price to pay?
At this point, Five has no idea how to judge.
-o-
The laundry room is several floors down, and the sheets aren’t heavy, but Five still feel winded by the time he gets there. He wonders if this means Diego’s fitness regimen isn’t working. Alternatively, he thinks his age is finally catching up with him, a teenager’s body be damned.
It’s fine, and Five doesn’t let it show. He methodically puts the clothes in the washer, finds the detergent and starts the load. His fingers still hurt, but it’s getting easier to move them; he knows from experience that persistence can help you desensitize anything.
That said, it’s still a funny thing, doing laundry. He can count the number of loads he’s done in his life on a single hand. Mom had done the laundry growing up, and there hadn’t been electricity in the apocalypse. When one pair of clothes got too mangy, he’d simply scavenged another.
On the road, working for the Commission, he’d been in and out of time so often that there had rarely been a point. For all that the Commission didn’t do, it did provide crisp suits for employees as needed, thus making the need to visit the laundromat nonexistent.
Yet, it’s a simple process. Five knows too much not to know how the machine works, and the dials are self explanatory enough. Hot water and soap will get the job done, and Five’s bedding and pajamas will be as good as new.
He appreciates the irony for a moment. In this dingy room, he can revitalize the laundry, make it look as good as ever. There’s no such fix for himself, though. It feels like the last few weeks have been a scalding wash, but when the layers of grime are scrubbed away, he’s not sure there’s anything left.
That’s a lie. There’s something left. It’s just not anything Five likes. Even that, though, is a vain distinction. The problem is, in pragmatic terms, is that there’s nothing left of him of any utilitarian value as far as his family is concerned. For the Commission, on the other hand, the things that are left are entirely of their choosing and making. That’s an inescapable truth.
“You should tell them.”
Five startles but doesn’t show it. He’d half forgotten that Ben was there. Partially because Ben’s a ghost. Also because Five’s senses have been clouded by the neverending train of thought he can’t reel back in. When he looks back, he manages to muster up a terse expression. “Now I have to report an upset stomach?”
It’s a coy answer, and he sells it as effectively as he can. Ben doesn’t buy it. “This isn’t the stomach flu or food poisoning. You’re having nightmares.”
Five rolls his eyes. “They all know about the nightmares.”
Everyone knows about the nightmares. Five wakes up screaming sometimes; it’s sort of impossible to miss.
Ben is clearly trying to stage another intervention. Five almost can appreciate the sentiment, but he honestly doesn’t see the point. An intervention is designed to save someone. Five’s already lost. The only intervention needs to be for his siblings because they haven’t recognized the inevitability yet. “It’s more than the nightmares.”
It’s the surly attitude. It’s the outbursts. It’s the broken mirror in the bathroom. It’s his lack of an appetite and the way his ribs still protrude from his chest. It’s the way he’s not getting better when he should be.
His defenses flare. “So? What’s the point?”
“The point is that you’re struggling,” Ben says. “You’re struggling and you need help.”
Five huffs. “All I get is help. The training and the meals and the pampering -- I’m practically drowning in help.”
There’s a lilt to his voice at the end of that, but he holds onto the emotion just in time.
Ben shakes his head. He would sigh, if he were able. “But that’s not the help you need. Is it?”
It’s a stupid question; it’s an annoying question. In fact, it’s downright infuriating. “And tell me, please,” he says sarcastically while the washing machine rumbles behind him. “What help do I need?”
“I don’t think you have any idea,” Ben says. “And maybe we don’t either. But we’ll never figure anything out unless you ask.”
Five settles on incredulity now. You can’t kill a dead man, anyway. You can, however, mock him relentlessly. “Your psychological analysis is brilliant -- really insightful,” he says. “But that’s a diagnosis, not a cure. Because if I leave it up to you jackasses, I’ll get exercise and comfort food and games of Scrabble but nothing that actually addresses the real problem.”
Ben seems to see an opening; he seizes upon it. “And what is the problem, then?”
Logically, he thinks about playing coy again, but the impulse to answer otherwise is too strong. “Me!” he all but explodes, throwing his arms out. “I’m the problem. Not the torture or the isolation or the shock therapy -- me.”
He says it in a rush and the words are out before he has a chance to second guess them. It’s a truth he’s held close to him for quite some time now, a truth he’s probably known for years and decades before now. It’s a strange thing to state it so bald, and it’s impossible to say if it’s freeing or terrifying. It’s both.
Ben is not affected by the intensity of the outburst. If anything, it’s made him more sure of himself. “And that’s what you need to tell them. They can’t help you the way you need to be helped until they know what’s going on in your head. As powerful as we all are, none of us can read minds, Five. You have to tell us.”
He laughs, and it’s a horrible sound as it burns coming up his throat. It tastes as bad as the bile. “I should just tell you that?” he asks. “I should tell you that I don’t trust myself and that I think you should put a bullet in my head before I bring more harm to this family?”
It’s a horrible thing to say, and Five almost flinches at the starkness of his own words. He’s not thought about it like that, even if that’s what he’s known since coming back. It’s the reality that Pogo had dodged; it’s the truth his family is so patently ignoring. It’s the baseline of his reality, the one that he has refused to acknowledge, and it’s the missing piece to the puzzle that has skewed his whole existence.
Everyone wants to save Five, but Five might as well be back in that cell. He could be in the lab or the medical facility for all the difference it would make. It’s not even a matter of utility. It’s not that he’s weak right now. It’s that he’s fundamentally changed; it’s that the longer he’s here, the sooner it will be that he destroys them all.
It’s a surprise to him, in all honesty.
Ben’s face registers not a single ounce of surprise. “Yes,” he says. “That’s exactly what you need to tell them.”
That’s such stupid thing to say. It’s stupid and naive and shit, Five’s got the need to fight and no targets nearby to strike. He’s aimless is what he is. The Commission gave him a purpose he didn’t want and stole the one that matter. What’s left -- Five doesn’t know.
Five doesn’t even want to know.
The mere question of it makes him cut hysterically, and it’s all he can do not to destroy the laundry room more completely than he massacred the bathroom a day earlier.
“And for what?” Five asks, he demands. “So they can tell me I’m wrong? So they can pointlessly indulge in sentimentality?”
“You call it sentimentality,” Ben says. “But we call it perspective.”
Five steps back; he hasn’t even realized that he’s been advancing. Behind him, the machine is whirring on its spin cycle.
Ben doesn’t stop. “Right now, you’re scared and you’re hurting. You are going through the motions, but you don’t want to get better.”
Five’s jaw tightens “What? You’re taking your talking points from Klaus now?”
Ben shrugs. “We all see it, Five. We know that you’re not really trying to get better anymore.”
It feels like an accusation, even if Five’s not sure that it is. He wrinkles his nose in disdain. There’s no reason to deny it, but it still feels bitter to accept it. “So? What about it?”
“So,” Ben says with an emphatic nod of his head. “That’s not what’s best for you.”
It’s a concept that fundamentally doesn’t compute. It can’t compute. Five’s entire life has been a series of events that were decided not good for him. At age 13, he got stuck in the apocalypse and buried his siblings. Three decades of isolation later, he had been turned into a temporal assassin with no moral code whatsoever. He had broken his contract to save his family, thereby putting a target on his backside for the rest of time and through all of space. He’s gone and made a deal to save his family that resulted in a prolonged period of torture and behavior training. Oh, and just a little genetic manipulation on the side.
His life has trained him in many things, but nothing more relevant than this: life doesn’t want what’s best for him. At all.
In fact, if you want to make any conjecture, there’s far more evidence that the universe is actively plotting against Five. He’s not inclined to superstition, but luck is not something that he’s ever thought to be on his side.
Of course it isn’t what’s best for him.
When the hell has Five gotten anything that’s good for him?
He shakes his head, utterly unable to grasp the concept. “Who the hell cares?”
Ben’s face is earnest. “We do,” he replies. “We want to help you, Five. It’ll help the family if you’re okay, sure, but that’s not what we’re aiming for right now. We want to help you.”
Ben says it like this is something they’ve talked about. Five thinks about that, about his family meeting together, having important family discussions about how he’s not okay and how they can change that. He thinks about them sharing progress reports. He thinks about Luther leading the meeting while Diego outlines Five’s mediocre progress with exercise. Allison mentions how many times she’s had to nag Five to get dressed this week, and Klaus tells them that it takes time, that Five’s not ready. Ben pops in and out and Vanya is wound so tight that Five can practically feel her vibrate in the notion of it alone.
He wonders how long it’s been since Luther worked on the Academy. He wonders if Diego is letting security lapse. He wonders if Allison is missing visitation with her daughter, and if Klaus finds being around Five to be triggering. He wonders if Ben sees how close Five is to joining him, and he wonders if it’s only a matter of time before the stress of the situation makes Vanya implode.
And he’s back to the apocalypse.
This time, it’s Five who causes the apocalypse.
He blinks rapidly as the buzzer dings on the washer. He startles, trying to bring his staggered breaths back under control.
It’s a lot; it’s too much. “So, what?” he asks, voice thick with accusation now. “You’d risk the safety of everyone for me? When you know who I am and the things I’ve done? You’d willingly make that trade?”
Ben doesn’t flinch, the bastard. Doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes,” he says, completely without reservation. “That’s what family is, isn’t it? And if we had any doubts, it was your plan that taught us otherwise. The family first. The family, whole and together. That was your plan, Five. We’re just following along.”
The surge of rage is almost more than he knows what to do with. That’s the point, though, isn’t it. Five doesn’t know what to do.
All his plotting and planning and math and he doesn’t know what to do.
“And you think I have to listen to you?” he asks, stepping forward now, staring Ben down. “You’re dead. Your opinion is irrelevant because if you had any common sense, you’d still be alive and not haunting us like the ghost we never asked for! So I’m supposed to listen to you? I’m supposed to stand here and listen to you preach at me? You don’t know anything.”
He steps closer still, and his heart is racing, his palms are sweating. The autonomic response is taking over now, and Five can only follow the lead of his DNA.
“You’re insignificant,” he says, jabbing his finger forward as he steps closer. “You’re stupid and weak. No wonder Dad made you Number Six. Look at you. Chasing after your siblings because you don’t even know how to be dead.”
He closes in now, close enough to see the lines around Ben’s eyes. He doesn’t know how ghosts age; maybe the ghost is nothing but a projection. Maybe Ben is who they have created to fill the void in their family. Maybe Ben is the manifestation of their subconscious need.
That makes Five hate him more.
“So shut the hell up!” he says, and he impulsively reaches out to shove his brother. “And leave me alone with your sniveling sentiment!”
Ben doesn’t fall back, and Five kicks at him. His foot connects with the wall instead.
With a growl, he runs out of articulate things to say. He watches as Ben almost braces himself for the attack he’ll never feel.
Physically, anyway.
Five punches, and shoves. He reaches out, hands to encircle the throat, but they close on air. The forward momentum leaves him off balance and he kicks again. When he punches again, this time his fist slams into the wall, and he can feel the cuts on his break open, splitting wider as blood seeps out. He knows in an instant that he’ll need stitches; it’s also possible he’s broken his hand in several places.
Needless to say, that effective ends the fight.
It’s only as he staggers back, gasping and holding his freshly injured hand that he realizes that it’s never been much of a fight. Ben’s got no substance; Five’s effectively been fighting the air.
If that’s not a terrible metaphor for the pathetic state of his existence, then Five doesn’t know what is.
“Look,” Ben says, as if Five hasn’t just thrown a temper tantrum like a child. “I know you’re struggling with everything, so you do get a pass on that, all of it.”
Five looks up at him, and his eyes are inexplicably wet. The pain, probably. A pathological response to physical stimuli.
Ben reaches down as if to touch him, and Five swears that when his hand brushes against his shoulder, he can feel it. That’s ridiculous, naturally. This whole thing is ridiculous.
“That’s why we’re not asking you to get better. We’re not asking you to have a plan or to do anything right. That will come with time,” Ben says.
Five chokes on a laugh. It might be a cry. “You think?”
Ben shrugs. “I know,” he says. “But we do want one thing from you in all of this, just one thing.”
One thing.
He makes it sound so easy, but Five knows it’s not. Five knows nothing is easy, not for him, not in this life.
“Just keep breathing,” Ben says. “Just keeping doing what we say, stay with us. I know it might not sound like a lot, but it’s more than you think. For right now, as messed up as this is, it’s everything.”
Five drops his head, closing his eyes. The pain. There’s so much pain.
“Hey,” Ben says, beckoning Five to look up again. When Five does, Ben nods. “That part’s non-negotiable. Do you understand?”
The answer is no, Five doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why he’s here or really how he got to this place. He doesn’t understand why his equations never showed him this. He doesn’t understand how a plan that made so much sense is so hard to live out in practice. He doesn’t understand why his family bothers. He doesn’t even understand why he’s still here, still doing what they say.
Ben’s gaze is serious. “Promise me,” he says. “You have to promise me.”
Five breathes and closes his eyes again.
What else can he do?
-o-
Five complies.
Is it love? Is it commitment? Is it gratitude? Is it part of a plan? Is it his DNA?
He stares blankly at the equations scribbled on the wall as Mom stitches him up in the morning.
“My, my,” she tuts, applying antiseptic. “Some of these are quite deep.”
She has no idea.
She smiles as she reaches for her needle. “Don’t worry, dear,” she soothes. “Nothing’s broken.”
Nothing, she says.
It might as well mean everything.
-o-
Five tries.
That’s what survival is, after all. The mere effort to live. You do whatever it takes. You eat cockroaches. You become a killer. You travel through time.
And sometimes you do as you’re told.
Sometimes you just keep breathing.
In and out, in and out.
It’s so simple that Five isn’t sure why he finds it so completely hard. Because it is hard. It’s really, really hard. Every breath in, he feels like the walls are closing in. Every breath out, and he fights the urge to murder someone.
For the sake of the promise he’s been compelled to give, he tries to do as they say. He does the exercises. He plays the games. He eats the food. When he’s alone in his room, he sits down and tries to do his equations, but with his damaged hands, it’s too hard to hold the chalk. Besides, he still shakes when he tries to still, and the numbers all come out wrong.
He fares better with reading, if only that it seems like he’s faring less poorly. He still can’t hold a train of thought to make it through a page, but as long as he stares at a book long enough and turn the pages periodically, everyone seems to think things are fine.
This may be true. Five doesn’t feel qualified to say.
All he knows is that a few nights later, when he goes to sneak a snack from the kitchen, he hears a rustling sound. He flies into such a rage that he’s literally ripped a rat in half before he realizes what he’s done. It was an overreaction, of course. The fact that he defaults to blind murder is probably not ideal, however.
Five throws the rat out back in the trash when Vanya finds him.
“Ben said you disappeared,” she says, and it’s obvious that she’s been woken from sleep.
“Yeah, just practicing my skills,” he says, and he thinks he musters up something that resembles a smile. “Didn’t mean to worry anyone, but I was hungry. I’m still five pounds below weight, so I thought no one would object.”
It almost sounds convincing. He almost sounds like himself.
Vanya frowns. “Five, is that blood?”
He looks down. His hands are still coated in it. It’s staining his pajamas.
She steps forward, eyes wide now. “Five?”
“It’s not mine,” he says, knowing that won’t make it better. Then again, nothing makes anything better. You can get everything right and still get everything wrong.
She reaches out, hand hovering close to him.
There is no more need to pretend. He sighs, resigning himself to the inevitable. “We are down one rat from the mansion, however.”
When she meets his gaze, she’s horrified, but trying not to show it. “How did you kill it?”
Five shrugs, as if to soften what he says next. “I may have ripped it apart with my bare hands,” he says. “Honestly, that part’s a blur. I heard a noise and attacked. The next thing I knew, there was dead rat everywhere.”
It’s not a pretty confession, but then, what confession is. He wonders if he should have kept it from her for her sake, but his judgment is suspect. There’s an off chance that maybe this will show her who he is, that maybe she’ll finally realize why all of this work is futile. Maybe she’ll finally realize that Five doesn’t belong here, that he’s never going to belong here.
But instead, something different coalesces on her face. “Okay,” she says, and she nods toward the kitchen. “Let’s go figure this out.”