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chaoticallywriting · 18 days

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☂Death and Her Companion☂

Prologue

Description - And so we meet the girl from the bunker, the hidden away secret. The one to powerful, to fearsome and to quick-witted. How sad it must be to be the harbinger of death and yet have such a kind soul. How odd it strikes the other Hargreaves that this wondrous woman is their 'little' brothers supposed ex. One must wonder what her role is in everything, which chest piece she is on Reginald Hargreaves board. One thing is for sure, to Five she is the all mighty queen.

A/N - Please don't expect much of me, I am dragging myself through work four cans of alani at a time. There are little time jumps throughout their time in the apocalypse. I plan on writing more cute apocalypse bonding moments for them throughout the series.

Warnings - Canon typical violence, use of y/n like twice. Needles, blood, syringes, abandonment issues. Self worth issues. Mentions of skinniness due to lack of food (from the apocalypse my dudes)

Pairing - Five x Reader

Word count - 6k

To tell a story, one must have a character or set of characters to follow. They may not be reliable or entirely likable nor good-hearted or kind, they may not be evil or extraordinary but simply intriguing. Intriguing enough to hold the reader's attention, to keep them coming back for more. And that is Y/N, a girl born on a day where something extraordinary happened and if given any other power she would have been one to marvel over.

But the babe was born with fingertips dosed in inky darkness and killed her mother during birth. Then her grandmother who held the babes pinky and so on. Eventually she was kept hidden with the help of one Reginald Hargreaves, who agreed that her power was too strong for the world to bear. So said girl lived her life underground with a robot as a mother (to keep her from accidentally killing her too) and eventually a robotic companion that was meant to resemble her age.

Even through glitches and random updates she didn’t know what normal really was, so she never batted an eye. As she grew so did the darkness upon her fingertips until eventually it stopped at her elbows. She read every book given to her, watched every movie and show and held a strict physical regiment to keep her in shape.

She learned just about every fighting style known to man thanks to the updates her mother was given and regularly ran in the underground garden. Her bunker was her life and she never thought it odd until she was 14. You see, all those movies and books showed a different life than hers, exciting ones that showed the ocean and the sun, the moon, stars. There was romance and friendships, adventures galore. Suddenly her life which was once fulfilling felt… suffocatingly dull.

Neither her companion nor mother would let her out nor sympathize with her. They only tried to distract the girl from her growing desires. But such desires only grew and mixed with the rage of a preteen girl came a moment in her life she’d always remember, the moment when the monotony would finally end. They didn’t listen, they tried placating, and they tried deflecting. At one point they tried to make her feel crazy, but her textbooks and ways of entertainment showed proof of a different life. So finally when all that rage and loneliness finished brewing it came time to try to escape.

She didn’t make it past the second steel door before a syringe was put in her neck. She awoke, she tried again, she was kept locked in a more secure room, no longer allowed to roam her bunker. So when her mother and companion came to visit on the 5th day she used her upbringing to her advantage and killed them. Twitching metallic limbs were scattered about the padded room, oil seeping out instead of blood and the sound of frying wires filling the air.

Finally, from doing this, she met the man who built her bunker. He kept himself protected behind a wall of plexiglass, staring her down through his monocle with a disapproving glare. “You have caused quite the mess.”

The young girl was sobbing, she had just killed the only people - no things she ever knew. She was a monster, a murderer. “I just want out, please let me out!”

“I cannot do that child, your power is beyond my control. You were able to suppress the medicine I tried to give you and are not fit for normal ways of living.”

His voice was cold and stern, in her already fragile state his lack of empathy only made her feel small. He only seemed to validate her worst fears.

“I can offer you something though, a way out from this life. All you must do is step through those doors and into the chamber I’ve built for you. It will let you out, I promise.”

The young girl, having never seen him before, didn’t know how this man was full of deceit. With barely anything else to do, she simply nodded through her tears. Whilst sniffling the girl followed his instructions and clambered into the small chamber. As she turned to face him, she realized how tiny it was and began to panic, but it was too late. Before she could even open her mouth to protest, the chamber door slammed shut and a gas filled the space.

It seemed like only seconds before air flooded the chamber, ragged gasps escaping her cracked lips. The pain she felt was overwhelming, it flooded her body and felt as though she was being torn in two. As her eyes rapidly blinked, she found the glass of the chamber had shattered and all around her was clouded by smoke and dust. As the terrified girl tried to move, that sharp pain halted her movements, causing her to crumble onto the floor.

Her hands and knees fell against the ground, shards of glass embedding into them and as the metallic taste flooded her mouth the young girl found a sharp metal stuck within her abdomen. Her once pristine white dress now drenched in blood and covered in smears of charcoal gray from the soot surrounding her. Blood dripped from her lips as she started to wheeze, her body falling the short distance onto the surrounding rumble. The icy grip of death was squeezing her and in her final moments she saw a pair of small and childlike leather loafers appear before her eyes.

Seconds turned to minutes as a confused and heart wrenched Five watched the young girl die. The only living being he’s seen since arriving in the future a mere eight hours ago, has perished within seconds of being within his presence. His confusion only heightens as he takes in her hands and forearms, then stares at the science fiction esque chamber she seemed to have fallen out of. It looked like something out of the comic books his brothers read- or well-used to read now that they are dead. The thought only hurt him more, causing tears to fill the pubescent eyes.

This odd looking girl had been stored in their family home, for how long? Five doesn’t know. But what he does know is his family is dead, and the world has ended, he’s seemingly alone and all he wishes to do is mourn his siblings. He takes a step backwards, planning on going back to their remains, (where he had spent the last six hours, sitting numbly among them) when a finger of hers twitches.

At first, he thinks he must be hallucinating from all the fumes and exhaustion due to all the tears he’s cried, but then it happens again and then her left arm jerks inwards, curling around her stomach. He’s stunned as he watches the young girl begin to slowly lift herself into a sitting position, the large piece of metal once lodged in her abdomen just… falling onto the ground, drenched in her blood.

The gaping hole begins to slowly mend itself as she wheezes and groans. Even all the tiny scratches across her body from the glass begin to heal and Five is left standing before some undead fourteen-year-old in a mixture of shock and awe. His siblings would probably be horrified and while he won’t say it out loud there is a small part of him that is; but that morbid curiosity of his kicks in and overpowers the dull horror ebbing through his brain. Suddenly it makes sense on how she survived an entire building collapsing on her and her near indestructible pod, how somehow whatever killed everyone else around him didn’t harm her.

“What are you?” He utters in a scratchy (he has been crying and screaming for hours) and awe filled tone.

Her nose scrunches, bloodied features full of fear and offense at his question. Those inky hands lay flat against the rubble as she pulls herself to stand, all wounds once leaking blood now closed and scabbed over. Her tone is soft and barely audible, as if almost scared to speak. “I’m just Y/N.”

The duffle slung over her shoulder is threadbare and has millions of random holes across it that have been half hazardously stitched back together. The uncomfortable strap digs into her shoulder as the weight of her valuables bogs her down. Their last source of shelter ended up collapsing not too long ago and so the sixteen-year-olds are once more on the hunt for a new place to call home. So they walk along a road cluttered with trash and rubble, dilapidated buildings lining both sides and the scorching sun beating down on them.

“What do you think we’ll find this time?”

He huffs, “I don’t know, something with a roof preferably.” Five has a duffle too along with a cart full of heavier items like their jars of food they’ve collected, jugs of barely drinkable water and makeshift tools.

The heat from the sun has made the girl drenched in sweat, body glistening and dirty, misshapen clothes stuck to her. Perhaps if she took her gloves off she’d feel a little better, but ever since discovering them she’s kept them on no matter the weather.

A year into the apocalypse they found a department store, one where Five became rather enamored by a mannequin. As he spent the better of twenty minutes simply staring at that torsoless thing, she hunted for any clothes they might need. Anything that didn’t seem within their size she set aside to eventually make a blanket out of it and began to softly hum to herself.

Finally, Five abandoned the mannequin and tossed something at the girl. A pair of elbow length black gloves. “Try those on,” he said as he began sifting through her pile of maybes. These were on the mannequin, she realized. The whole time she was worried about him losing it, and he came back with these instead of a new “friend.”

The gloves were a bit big but not enough that she had to worry about them slipping off. The inside felt silky and due to the size they went just passed her elbow instead. “These will be nice when winter hits, I won’t have to worry about potentially freezing any fingers off this year.”

“You should try touching the next rat we catch before we kill it… I have a theory that may help.”

And they did help, tremendously. The girl was shocked all it took to stop her powers was some cheap fabric. Her heart squeezed with appreciation as she finally began feeling less terrified of being around anything living. It felt ironic in the beginning how she finally felt free from not only herself but the chains that she was metaphorically born with, after the world had ended. Almost everyone was dead and she was finally at peace.

Now at sixteen she wears the same pair of gloves which now fit perfectly. There are holes and tears that have also been stitched with random thread that they scavenged throughout the years. Despite the fabric containing her undesired power, she finds herself hardly ever touching anything she wouldn’t want to kill. Anything that isn’t Five is food and well Five isn’t a very tactical person. There are a few nights each winter that they’ll huddle together for warmth, which he always makes a face about; but beyond that it’s more of a safety precaution. A ‘just in case I bump against you or need to grab you before you fall’ kind of thing.

As she stares at the dirtied gloves, a thought that’s always drifted through her mind bubbles to the surface once more. While they usually scavenge in silence to keep them focused for danger, today feels like an okay day to break that. There haven't been any accidents in a while, and typically they tend to be some sort of problem with herself. She’s fallen on rebar and been bitten by rabid rats, caught deathly flus and been the taste tester for water since the very day she fell out of what she can only assume was some type of cryochamber.

“Why do you think he never thought to do this to me?”

He eyes her for a second, brow raised. They both step over some debris, worn shoes knocking small rocks out of the way as he speaks. “What? End the world?”

A cockroach skitters by and for a brief second they both watch it in concentrated silence. There’s a silent debate between them, eyes locked, on whether they should hunt it and kill. Five makes the first move of ignoring it and moving on. They have jars of food, and it’s not that big. Plus they don’t have the necessities to pickle it like they did in the past.

“No dumbo.-“ He glares at her, “-give me gloves, so I couldn’t harm anyone. He could have saved so much time and money and I could have been one of you guys! One of the umbrella academy, going on missions and having a real family.”

“What we had wasn’t exactly a proper family,” he starts. The girl sighs, thinking of what her family was. While his wasn’t normal either, it wasn’t as insane sounding as hers. “I’m guessing you can’t really make a toddler or even a young child keep the gloves on, no matter how much you stress the importance of them.”

“Then he should have just killed me when he adopted me.”

He stops all together which she doesn’t pick up at first, too busy surveying their surroundings for anything useful. So far it’s just more collapsed buildings and dust. Sometimes she thinks of the old westerns Thomas (her childhood companion) liked, and imagines a tumbleweed lightly dancing across the street ahead of them.

“You think so?” Finally, she turns, noticing the distance between them and the girl just shrugs. He eyes her, gaze critical. They’ve been at this whole apocalypse thing for a while now and a major part of staying alive has been having one another. Yes he has the motivation of seeing his family again to help keep him going, but it’s been her that’s helped keep him off that delicious looking precipice of madness.

“I do, if he couldn’t trust me to simply keep some gloves on then he should have killed me. Obviously I was too dangerous for the world, and yet he wouldn’t just do the one thing that was probably best for everyone involved. I mean do you think he adopted me, realized my power and just shoved me in the bunker? Or do you think maybe he tried alternatives first?”

He rubs his face which is already smeared in dust and dirt, his hair is tangled and long and beyond greasy. She knows hers doesn’t look any better. It’s been a while since they’ve found anything sharp, the last sharp thing they had was a broken bottle that they used as a makeshift knife. It didn’t last long.

“I think despite his cold nature, killing a baby was too heartless of a task even for the old man.” He finally walks again, stopping at her side. Neither move, simply staring at one another. “I don’t know why he kept you in there, maybe we can figure that out when we get back.”

Despite his insistence of them returning, she finds herself hardly believing it. She’s never told him how she doubts him, worried it will cause a rift between the two. The idea of rocking the delicate balance between them has always been at the back of her mind. Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night from a horrible dream of him abandoning her, claiming she’s too much of a liability or something.

“You have caused quite the mess.”

It loops in her brain like clockwork, constantly there to remind her of the life she once lived. Even if they were robots, she killed the only two companions she ever had, and she wonders if Five has ever judged her for it.

“Yeah,” she says in a slightly dejected, half-hearted tone. “Maybe.”

Around her twenties, something happens. She’s not quite sure how or why, but she stops aging. Five continues to age as time drags on and she stays relatively the same. They theorize that it must be because of her whole ‘not dying’ shtick which then just springs forth a new panic inside her. She’s always worried about Five somehow dying but now no matter what she’ll end up alone. Because even if she wraps him in bubble wrap and always takes good care of him, he will die and she won’t. There is no old age for her and there most likely never will be. She can do everything in her power to keep him alive but one day he will die, and she will be eternally alone in this fiery hellscape. It’s befitting, she guesses, due to his nickname for her being Death.

Death will be stuck in hell completely by herself because death always takes from others so why should it be given something in return. Why should it have companionship or a happy ending of some sort?

They’ve grown closer recently, it’s odd and comforting all at once. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that they’ve managed to make a somewhat stable makeshift shelter. They’ve spent two and a half years there and just recently have come across a small packet of potato seeds. There’s little hope anything will grow but that small piece of happiness has caused them both to briefly stop thinking of what needs to be done next to keep from dying.

They’re thirties now, or well she’s still physically twenty, and have recently been reading together at night. They huddle by their fire as the autumn chill sets in, and he reads a few passages before the flames die down. Shoulders bump and sometimes their heads lean against one another. He’s grown to be handsome in her eyes, and she wonders if she’d still think that if others were around.

One day, after the embers dwindle and a cold breeze drifts through the cracks within their makeshift home, something odd occurs. Within the darkness she makes out his eyes still open as they huddle together, surveying her features. When they make eye contact he clears his throat and shifts to look at the metal sheet ceiling they’ve concocted.

“What is it?” Death whispers. It’s not great to be loud at night, as time went on the rats got bigger and as did the roaches. They’ve become a sort of predator for them and while both are excellent fighters neither wants to deal with some sort of altercation this late at night.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he coldly responds. Ahh, so she gets to deal with defensive Five. The one who deflects and tries to turn it around on her. It’s funny and kinda cute that despite all the years that they’ve spent together, he still thinks he can lie to her.

“You were staring at me,” she turns to her side to face him, trying and failing to hide a smirk. Her hands are flat underneath her head to act as a cushion against the flattened pillow she’s been using for the last six years.

“You have dirt on your face.”

“I always have dirt on my face-“

“Yeah well,” he drawls, “you have more than usual.”

In a flash she turns to the other side, hand digging into the dirt nearby and smears it across his face. His mouth is gapping open, and she can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out. He clamps a hand over her mouth and for a moment, they stare into each other's eyes in silence as they wait to hear for any nearby creatures. His eyes are wide with anger and his grip against her mouth is rough, but she’s not scared. She could never be scared of him.

They stay like that even once it’s clear they aren’t in danger. His grip on her mouth softens slightly but neither diverts their gaze. It almost feels like a contest on who can wimp out first.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he mutters, his voice so soft it’s almost lost to the howling wind. “That’s what I was looking at.”

Deaths mouth drops open as his hand falls away.

“Oh.”

Her bravado is lost, and she feels something tighten within her chest. Her heart is beating rapidly, like whenever they're in danger, but they aren’t. She vaguely remembers watching heroines in romance movies describe this type of thing, this sort of rattling within her abdomen and sudden clamminess of the palms.

“And your lips,” he starts-

“What about them?” She whispers, far too nervous to let him continue without responding first.

“They suit your face perfectly.” His thumb comes to rest on her lower lip, and he slightly pulls at it. The woman’s breath hitches and unconsciously scoots closer to him. Their chests are touching as they lay on their sides, due to the closeness her hand comes to rest on the forearm of the hand that’s now moving to gently cradle her face.

“And I can’t stop thinking about them. Even when we’re in danger, I’m not focusing on the task at hand because all I can think about is your lips.”

She surges forward, closing the gap between them and pressing her lips against his own. He tastes of dirt and the saltiness of his sweat, but she doesn’t mind, she’s sure she tastes the same. It’s awkward and their teeth clash against one another, saliva dribbling down their chins and their touching each other everywhere they can think of. It’s messy and not romantic at all, holding this sense of life ending urgency. Like if she doesn’t kiss him until she can’t breathe then she’ll finally experience true mortality.

Eventually they reluctantly pull apart, both gasping for breath as their noses bump against one another. He’s still cradling her face and her grip on his forearm is bruising, as if worried he might pull away with regret.

“Esattamente come immaginavo” he whispers. She can’t help the smile that breaks out across her lips, nor the happy little sigh that escapes her. She kisses him again, and again and again. He indulges each one.

She breathes the words against his lips, his fingers now gripping her hip to hold her close. It’s hard to concentrate with his thigh pressed against her. “Come lo hai immaginato?” She finally breathes out.

“Perfetto.”

More years pass, that same shelter still works as their home, even if it is quite rickety. There’s a makeshift shelf lined with pickled roaches or rats and there’s new support poles throughout. With Fives age she does most of the intensive work now, which he hates and there’s always an argument about it. They are as close as can be though, despite everything and despite the wrinkles littering his face or the slight graying of his hair. She loves him, and he loves her in their own twisted little way.

One day someone appears and breaks their routine. A woman who goes by the title of “The Handler,” explains the commission to them and its mission. Then she pitches a cushy contract to them and while Five hymns and haws over it, Death is about ready to sign on the dotted line. It’s not that she doesn’t understand the risks or thinks it’ll be enjoyable, but it’s out of this apocalyptic wasteland, and it gives Five a chance to live longer. If they get out of here they can retire in their original timeline and get the medical care he may need in his old age.

Eventually, he concedes, and they leave behind what they’ve known as home for more than half their lives. It’s weird, being part of society again. At least for Five. Death was never fully part of society to begin with so it’s more of a whole panic inducing experience for her. They are given a small living space which consists of a queen bed and an en-suite bathroom. There’s a kitchenette against one wall with a small metal table that has two chairs pushed underneath it. Five says it looks like a motel straight outta the ‘50s. The Handler tells them that’s the current decade they are in.

Proper clothes and toiletries are given to them and the first time she showers since before her cryochamber is an experience. The hot water hits her back and seemingly melts her hair, turning it from a ratty mess to complete wetness that hangs down her back. The woman hasn’t had a hair cut since she was a child and as she climbs out of the shower she realizes how much hair she currently possesses. A towel is wrapped tightly around her when there’s a knock on the bathroom door, and she cautiously opens it to let Five in.

He whistles as he takes her in. Beads of water trail down her body and for once there’s not a speck of dirt on her. She spent forever scrubbing at every crevice and callous on her body, trying to rid herself of decades worth of dirt and survival. Her hands tightly grip the towel, afraid to be near him without her gloves. The commission took their old clothes away, claiming they were just trash now. She was promised new clothes and new gloves, but it hurt to part from the hole infested pair gifted to her by her partner.

“You look like a whole new woman,” he states. She looks down at her body, all skin, and bones from feasting on scraps for so long. She can’t hold back the chuckle that leaves her.

“I guess so,” she claims. He’s clean now too, even his beard is gone and all that’s left is a mustache. She’s shocked, he’s had one for so long. They’d try to cut it whenever they could to keep him cleanly but even then it’s not like they could do much. She grabs a pair of scissors from the counter and carefully hands them to him, holding her breath as she watches him take them from her. “Will you cut my hair?”

Five is shocked, it seems the idea of her cutting her long mane never crossed his mind. But if they are going to be assassins then she needs to be practical and there’s no need for such excessive amounts of hair now that they have access to proper scissors. It’s quiet as he cuts, there’s the faint sound of some old song playing in the background, most likely from the little radio on their dresser. She can hear the snip of the metal each time he cuts away a chunk of her past, the weight slowly lessening. It’s symbolic in a way, as if it’s him shutting the door on that part of their life.

Time drones on, many songs pass and neither of them speak. Eventually he turns her to him, careful to keep her away from the mirror. She watches him with bated breath, realizing now that maybe he won’t like her with shorter hair. It never crossed her mind, it’s only ever been them so the idea that he may suddenly lose interest just seemed… impossible.

He snips at a few strands close to her face, her initial reaction being to jerk away which he just tuts at her for. Finally, she stays still, and he finishes his work with a few more snips. After slowly setting the scissors down he takes her in, a smile slowly creeping into his thinning lips. “Bellísimo“ he whispers.

He always flirts with her in Italian, it causes her to flush. With all the dirt gone and the lights of the bathroom shining down on her, only a towel covering her naked frame, she suddenly feels insecure. She’s never felt that around him, never felt the need really. It was never about being pretty, there wasn’t time for pretty. But now there sort of is and there are the resources for it too.

He turns her to the mirror and the woman before her isn’t apocalyptic Death. This is the new her, fresh into society and ready to kill anyone necessary for her. She hopes that she comes to like who she sees in the mirror, or at least recognize her. Right now it seems like a hollowed out stranger with bags under her eyes and a bony form. But she will admit, Five is a good hairdresser.

The commission is smart, that she will give them. They hardly ever assign her and Five on missions together. They become ships passing in the night, barely seeing one another for an hour or so at a time before they are rushing off in a new mission, after a new target. Furthermore, they give her new silky black gloves and The Handler has dubbed her “The Belladonna” because she’s stealthy like a poison and quick like one too. Efficient and always out of sight. She loses count of the people she’s killed, at this point it’s instinctual to take off her gloves and just touch whenever need be. The horror of watching someone drop-dead mere moments later soon wears off, and instead she’s left feeling emptier each time.

Five has always been trying to figure out how to get home, but now with the technology of the commission he’s really started cracking down on it. She tries to help when she can, offering insight and even solving one of the various problems. It’s late one night, a rare one where they are both in their room together.

He’s got a drink in his hand, and she’s in one of his shirts with her gloves on. They’ve got papers scattered across the floor with various formulas and her brain hurts from all this thinking. She just got back from a mission, having successfully killed eight people who were at risk of disrupting the timeline. It was easy until the end, one slipped away and a chase began. She eventually got him but had to pull her gun on him which has always been her least favorite way to do it. It’s not like she’s bad at it, quite the contrary, but it’s messy. It’s brutal and suddenly it seems more impactful. With a simple touch they choke and freeze, then fall to the ground and boom! Dead. With a gun there’s a struggle and so much blood, there’s gasping and wheezing and pleads for a second chance. She feels less human every time she pulls the trigger.

“What about your age?” She randomly asks. He’s sat on the edge of the bed and her question has his gaze whipping away from the papers to her pacing form. “I mean, if we can travel to the correct time to fix the apocalypse from happening then maybe we can do something about your age.”

“What’s wrong with my age?” a white brow is raised and she sighs. She’s never really voiced her fear to him, worried he might end up becoming offended. In all honesty old age suits him, he’s always acted like an old man. Crotchety, opinionated with sarcasm dripping from his tone. He’s the kind who’d probably sit on his porch and yell at kids to get off his lawn.

Death walks over to him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. They lock eyes, and she knows it’s time to finally tell him. “You’ll die in a couple of decades, and I’ll most likely still be a twenty-something year old woman. If we manage to get back to your family's timeline and retire then… Shouldn’t we be given the chance at a proper life together?”

“What like kids and a house? I didn’t peg you for the whole suburban life.”

She scoffs, eyes practically rolling into the back of her head. “No, I’m not talking about the whole white picket fence shebang.”

“I’m talking about us building a home together, finding a place with big windows in the living room that we’ll place two armchairs by so we can read in the sunlight. We’ll buy enough books to fill up a whole wall with them and a bar cart with your favorite spirits always stocked up.”

“We’ll get serious business-esque jobs and on the weekends we’ll lay in bed for an extra hour, cuddling or making love. You’ll get more time with not only me but your whole family too. Don’t you want that?”

It’s quiet for far too long as he contemplates her words, his eyes scanning over her features before looking at the mess of papers behind her. She can tell he’s doing the logistics in his head, weighing the pros and cons. His hands rest on her hips, and she gently straddles his lap, her arms linking around his neck to keep him close.

“It’ll complicate the formula even more,” he softly observes. “We’re so close to finishing this. I can tell.”

Her hands slide up to cup the back of his head. She can’t help but frown as he lets her down, her heart squeezing as she thinks of what’s down the road. “Please, we’re both smart, and can easily figure it out. It’s just a couple extra numbe-“

“Death-“

“Please,” she practically begs, her hands tangling in his hair and slightly tugging. “I can’t go live a normal life if you aren’t part of it.”

“I miss them, they’re my family, and they need me.”

She’s losing him, the wall is slowly going up, and she’s desperately trying to jump over it before the finality sets in. “What about me, don’t I need you too? Don’t we need each other I mean we survived the apocalypse together for fuck's sake!”

“And I spent the entire time thinking about getting back to them. Surviving for them.”

He doesn’t mean too, she knows that deep down, but his words cut her deeply. A wound on her barely beating heart is forming, and he’s just staring at her with a hardened expression.

Her eyes well with unshed tears, voice quivering as she speaks. “What about me, about us? Didn’t you survive for me too?”

It’s silent for two beats, then three and then four. They just stare at each other waiting for one to relent. Both of them are so stubborn and so set in their plan. She knows this is a pipe dream, but she was still holding out hope until this very moment. He thickly swallows and she just knows.

The wall is fully between them now. She couldn’t make the jump. His mind is made up, and she’s scared to hear what he’ll say. “I think I should go alone. There are less numbers if it’s just me.”

And that scratch, that wound, only deepens. It’s a crater now, and she fears there’s very little of her heart left functioning. She’s died a million times, been stabbed in every place imaginable, contracted various deadly illnesses, died from fire and hypothermia and yet now, this hurts far more than all of those combined. She climbs off of him like his touch is hurting her and aggressively wipes at her eyes.

“I didn’t realize I was hindering you so much-“

“I didn’t say that. I’m just sa-“

“I heard you loud and clear. If my presence is such a bother then I think I’ll request a different room.” She pulls on a pair of pants and quickly slips her feet into a pair of slippers. He just watches her too, doesn’t jump up to stop her. All this time she’s worried about what would happen if she voiced her thoughts, and it turns out her fears were warranted. All it took was her asking for something for once, begging for something even, for him to shut her out.

Five is selfish and cold-hearted, and he doesn’t love her like she loves him. He’s a man obsessed with one mission only, and she bets he won’t even like his family once he gets there. He just wants to be some kind of hero to them, to prove to himself that he can be the savior. To make up for his absence all those years.

With the click of the door, she severs the only love she’s ever known and changes the course of her life.

#the umbrella academy #TUH #reginald hargreeves #The Handler #lila pitts #max hargreeves #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you

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