tempportal

[tempportal]

The Umbrella Academy 3.09

[tempportal]

*leaves 'for a smoke' and comes back speckled with blood*

[tempportal]

@enduranceofsurvival said: “Whoa, whoa, take it easy! You got pretty banged up back there, and you don’t want to go making yourself worse.” - from Luther

One thing that's remained consistent throughout the last forty-five and seventeen years is that Five can still, apparently, always count on his siblings to make everything a hundred times more complicated than it ever needed to be. "Oh, pipe down, Luther, I'm fine. I've had way worse than this." It takes a minute to get the blazer off his swollen arm, and the sight beneath the sleeve isn't pretty — already, the limb is purple-black with bruises, bursting and blooming like perverse flowers over his pale skin, but none of the bones are sticking out, which is a lucky break (ha). It's always so much harder to fix those types of fractures. And the rest of his injuries are minor enough — a shallow graze on the side of his leg, a slightly deeper cut just above his left eyebrow, and a swollen bump on the back of his head that makes him feel dizzy and vaguely off-kilter, but doesn't actually impede him in any material way — that he can easily ignore them until they've completed their objective.

"Just give me a second to set it, and then we can get back to work," he graciously decides to informs Luther of his intention before he actually carries it out, since he has it on good authority (Dolores) that watching him pop his own bones back in place is "really very nauseating" and "so unsettling". "Apparently, it's not a pretty process, so do us both a favor and look away if you think you're gonna get squeamish about it."

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This is the first time Five is hearing anything about the blender, and whatever meager confidence he was beginning to have in Klaus' culinary abilities takes a sharp, sudden nosedive — though he supposes that's on him, for daring to believe any of his siblings could be competent at anything that isn't self-destructing in the most dramatic way possible, and spectacularly fucking up the timeline — but he's not particularly stressed about it, either, to tell the truth. When he thinks about the apocalyptic stakes he's usually dealing with, the consequences for messing up a meal are pretty low in comparison.

It's nice to know that the absolute worst-case scenario won't lead to anything worse than a handful of dirty dishes. It's nice to know the world isn't going to end just because he or his siblings made a mistake.

"Char the absolute shit out of the tomatoes," he repeats, dryly, as he proceeds to do just that, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "That'll go down in the Hargreeves Family Cookbook for sure." He's quiet for a while after that, enjoying the peace of the moment too much to break it — the faint sizzling of the stove burner, the popping and bubbling of the sauce as it reaches a boil it probably isn't supposed to, the heavy thud of Luther's footfalls on the upper floor as he gets ready for work, the swelling solo symphony of Viktor's violin as he practices his latest piece for the orchestra...

Five meant what he said to the Handler, somewhere in between blackmailing her best agents and blowing her up with her own grenades — he's not looking for happy. But, in moments like this, it feels almost like he's found it, anyway.

"Single gay men don't keep tea towels sounds an awful lot like a generalization," he says, at last, never mind that he doesn't know what the difference between a tea towel and a dishtowel even is. As far as he knows, they're both just pieces of cloth that go in the kitchen. "And a judgmental one, at that. Shouldn't the gayest person in the family be setting a better example for the rest of us?" He glances over his shoulder at his brother, a slight, teasing grin on his face. "Come on, don't leave me hanging. What happened next after that? Did you ever actually meet his husband?"

Between his forty-five years in an apocalyptic wasteland with a steady diet of crunchy cockroaches and expired dog food, and his full-time job as an assassin with more corrections under his belt than square meals in his stomach, Five has never been much of a cook. Sure, he can make the basics, obviously — scrambled eggs, grilled cheese, chicken noodle soup, spaghetti so long as the sauce comes out of a jar and the noodles come out of a box — but he's never really bothered to learn anything more complex than that.

It's kind of nice, though — the rhythmic and repetitive motions of slicing the tomatoes and onions, the dull thud of the sharp knife against the cutting-board, the spicy-sweet smell of the sauce as it simmers comfortably on the stovetop, and the feeling of the heavy ladle in his hands as he stirs it around in its pot, the careful precision of the whole process, and the way every step demands his full attention, the way every step keeps him firmly grounded in his body and in the moment so he can't get lost in his head, the way he can look at his bloodstained hands that have never done anything but destroy and realize, with something very close to wonder, that he's creating for what might be the first time in his whole life.

Even the vague background noise of Klaus — fluttering around the kitchen like a large and rather overexcited bird, humming and laughing and chattering on about a million and one things Five couldn't possibly hope to keep up with — is calming, in a way, the tension easing out of Five's ever-taut shoulders the longer he listens to his brother's aimless, irrelevant rambling.

"Is this the way the sauce is supposed to look?" he asks, breaking his silence for the first time in nearly an hour — say what you will about Klaus, but at least he knows how to carry a conversation when the other person doesn't have much to contribute — and taking a step away from the stove so his brother can come and take a look. Klaus is the self-proclaimed huevos rancheros expert after all, not him. "It seems kind of chunky."

@theseancekid l liked

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Five rolls his eyes at the unnecessary warning, irritation flaring in his chest — of course the one time his blackouts interfere with his academic performance is also the one time somebody is here to witness it, because that's just the way his life goes, apparently — but he doesn't bite back, mostly because he knows that's an argument he won't win. The proof of (what she'll perceive as) his inattentiveness is right there on his hands, after all. He just bows his head low over the table and focuses on the belladonna, the rhythmic thud of the knife and the soothing feeling of the blade's smooth handle under his fingers.

A scowl tugs his brows together as Starling goes on, apparently interpreting his stony silence as a green light to talk him half to death about his "distraction" — a typical Gryffindor, rubbing his failure in his face at every opportunity — but he's not really in the position to defend himself, either, because that would mean he'd have to try and explain his blackouts to this girl he barely knows, and doesn't particularly like. He doesn't even like to discuss his blackouts with Professor Handler, although she's always pushing him to, and she's his favorite teacher at Hogwarts by a mile.

"Maybe I'm distracted," he says, at last, and perhaps a bit sharper than he absolutely needs to, "because there happens to be a very irritating Gryffindor right next to me."

There aren't too many things that can ruin Five's favorite class of the day — there's just something so soothing about the usual late afternoon Potions lesson, with the light clinking of the cauldrons, the gentle hissing of steam and vapor, the soft bubbling of all the various liquids as they boil and simmer on their burners, and the precision of the work, the exact measurements and repetitive movements inherent in potionmaking — but finding out he has to pair up with Prue Starling, the golden girl of Gryffindor House, to make a childishly simple draught that really only requires one person anyway, is almost enough to make him turn around and walk right back out of the dungeons.

Okay, so maybe Five has never actually had a full conversation with Prue Starling before, and he's making an unfair judgment of her based on her reputation. Sue him. He's never actually had a full conversation with any of the other students at Hogwarts before, not even his own housemates, so it's not like it's anything personal. It's just that he's not here to make friends.

But he is here to get full marks in all of his classes, so he doesn't turn around and walk right back out of the dungeons like he very much wants to. He just gets to work, gathering the ingredients and settling in the seat beside his partner without complaint, or even any outward expressions of hostility. Maybe he should just count himself lucky it was only Starling, because there are far worse Gryffindors he could have easily ended up with.

Right on cue, his gaze drifts over to Dolores Ramirez, two desks down, infuriating as always in her bright red robes. Even when she's nowhere near him, she manages to be a distraction, joking around with her own partner so loud the whole room can hear it.

Five pointedly turns back to his own seatmate, refocusing his attention on their potion instead. The cauldron must have already reached a boil, because his face is burning all of a sudden. Even so, the liquid inside their shared pot is distinctly greener than it should be at this stage...

"Did you already add the first round of moonstone?"

@powerof3in1 l liked

[tempportal]

i’ve been in tears over this for 5 minutes

[tempportal]

See if I can handle every family burden

                    Watch as I buckle                                    and bend but never 

                                                                                      B R E A K

[tempportal]

       you’re  built  to  DESTROY.

                               you  can  n e v e r  belong.

[tempportal]

Sujata Bhatt, from “The One Who Goes Away”, The Stinking Rose

[Text ID: “But I am the one / who always goes away. // The first time was the most – / was the most / silent.”]

[tempportal]

have you ever considered therapy for your repressed anger issues? it would help.

they’re not repressed i’m expressing them a lot

[tempportal]

my moving date has gotten bumped up to this weekend, so it looks like i won't be available until next friday. sorry for the delay, and thanks to everyone for being patient!

[tempportal]

☂️  the umbrella academy:

number five + smiling (part two)

[tempportal]

Five gingerly sets the plates down in front of the respective seats around the table, careful not to bump or bang the fragile ceramic against the polished wood, while the easy banter between Gaira and her mother flows around him like water. His body has been pulled tight ever since he stepped into the house, muscles and tendons taut as violin strings, but the tension slowly begins to bleed out of him as the conversation continues, a mindless white noise in the background of his thoughts. Although he's listening, vaguely, to the debate between mother and daughter, nodding silently along in agreement with Ms. Rao's perfectly logical and reasonable arguments — and wondering how on earth a woman like that could have possibly produced someone as illogical and unreasonable as his archnemesis — he doesn't expect them to pull him into it, so he fumbles under Gaira's expectant glance for a minute or two.

"Your mother is right," Five says, finally, once he's gotten over his momentary surprise — although, if he's being honest, he would probably express the exact same opinion even if he didn't agree with Ms. Rao. Arguing with Gaira is kind of his specialty, after all. "You should be more careful with your powers, even in front of people you trust. You never know who could be watching you." He almost informs her that her recklessness has directly induced his victory over her in combat on more than one occasion, but then he remembers he's in her house, in her kitchen, with her mother, because she invited him over to dinner, and he decides to table that particular discussion for now.

Instead, he turns to speak to her mother, instinctively smoothing out a tiny wrinkle in his sweater (yes, he's wearing normal civilian clothes tonight, because he couldn't very well show up here in his schoolboy uniform, could he? it feels a bit strange to be wearing a simple sweater and slacks in front of other people, yes, but it would be infinitely stranger to wear his supervillain costume to dinner. her mother miraculously doesn't seem to recognize his face, if the fact that she didn't immediately expel him from the premises is any indication, but that outfit is a dead giveaway, and he knows it) and resisting the urge to do the same thing to his hair, and feeling astronomically foolish once he realizes what he's doing. It was second nature to him throughout his childhood to fix up his appearance a bit whenever he had to present himself to an adult — he had naively believed that, perhaps, if he just didn't look so dreadfully unkempt, they wouldn't instantly write him off as a scruffy orphan boy or juvenile delinquent. Perhaps, if he just proved to them that he was really trying his very best to be good, they wouldn't be so angry with him all the time.

(Of course, that was an ignorant assumption. But little Number Five had been nothing if not stupid and persistent.)

He maintains a careful distance from Ms. Rao as he addresses her — close enough that it isn't glaringly obvious, and she likely won't think anything of it if even she does notice, yet far enough away that she can't reach him, can't grab him or smack him or hold onto him and prevent him from teleporting out of the room and escaping her. "What else can I do, Ms. Rao?"

@dvarapala l continued from x

Five has barely even stepped through the door, and he's already completely and totally overwhelmed. He prepared himself pretty thoroughly, or so he'd thought, for a great number of unpleasant receptions when he finally accepted one of Gaira's incessant invitations last week — it could very well be an ambush after all, his sworn nemesis and a couple of her fellow superheroes lying in wait for him, ready to attack the instant he came inside, but that sort of underhanded trickery simply doesn't correspond with Gaira's usual behavior, so he'd dismissed the theory almost as quickly as he'd postulated it, and moved onto likelier hypotheses.

Perhaps she had just wanted to see if he would actually fall for it, see if he would actually allow himself to believe the tentative bit of... trust friendship whatever they'd established during their alliance against the Puppet Master would still hold up now that they no longer shared a common enemy. Perhaps she had just wanted to exact a bit of vengeance now that he was finally willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she would laugh in his face when she saw him on her front porch, because god, Five, who would ever willingly spend time with you? did you seriously think we were actually friends, or something? believe me, I'm not that desperate! and then she'd slam the door on him, go back to her quiet, villain-free night with her mother, and forget all about him.

Or perhaps she gave him the wrong address. Perhaps she just wanted to ensure he understands that the nebulous, nameless Whatever they established during their alliance was a product of forced proximity, and it would never survive concrete reality. Or perhaps she was being genuine when she invited him, but she's changed her mind since the last time he saw her, and she'll send him away with one of her sheepish, apologetic smiles.

Any of those outcomes would be perfectly fine, of course. Five isn't particularly fussed about them. He does not desire Gaira's acceptance in any form or fashion. He does not desire anyone's acceptance in any form or fashion. He's above such trivial things.

Still, he has a very specific procedure in mind for each and every one of her potential reactions, so it's... surprising and unexpected and a little bit terrifying when he doesn't have to use them.

Because Gaira (or, Udyati, technically, since she's not in costume right now, but using her civilian name is a very slippery slope to being friendly, and he is above such trivial things, remember, so he refuses to do anything that could ever possibly be construed in that manner) positively beams at him the moment she lays eyes on him, her whole face lighting up like a Christmas tree, and immediately unleashes a barrage of information that he can't even begin to keep up with. There's something about vegetarians in there, for sure, and also something about Diwali (which he knows is a Hindu holiday, but that's about where his knowledge taps out) and then she tosses out a bunch of names he only sort of vaguely recognizes, and he's trying to match them to the faces of all those annoying little friends of hers, and then she's telling him to leave his shoes in the hallway. Five's skin prickles at the very thought, itching with discomfort — the convenient thing about teleportation is that he can just leave a situation whenever he feels like it, but the inconvenient thing about teleportation is that he has to keep all his essentials on his person at all times for a quick escape and, personally, he would very much consider his shoes to be one of those essentials. How is he supposed to get out when this whole thing inevitably turns sour if he doesn't have his shoes?

This was a mistake, Five realizes, blind panic and burning shame twisting up around each other like twin serpents in his stomach. This was a terrible, horrible, foolish mistake, one that he should have known better than to make — one that he did know better than to make, if he's being perfectly honest with himself. This was an absolutely imbecilic mistake, and he needs to go back to the lair right now, while the evening is still semi-salvageable.

But.

He doesn't.

Five pulls in a deep breath, leaves his shoes in the hallway, and follows Gaira deeper into the house.

Now that he's finally taking a proper look around (mostly to try and distract himself, so he doesn't go completely off his chump and blink away before he even reaches the kitchen) he's struck by what a nice house his nemesis lives in. his lair is something of a palace in comparison to the boys' home, but this is something else entirely. it's wonderfully warm, especially in contrast to the cold autumn wind blowing outside, with electric lamps throwing golden pools of light everywhere. The floorboards remain steady under his feet, and the windowpanes are intact. He wonders idly if this roof leaks something awful when it rains, or if the inside gets as dreadfully cold as the outside in the winter, like his lair.

But, to tell the truth, the luxury isn't what really catches his eye, as fantastic and unbelievable as it is. It's the touches of life all around the place — the throw pillows and afghans on the sofa, the decorations on the walls, the framed photographs on every available surface, pictures of a much younger Gaira grinning at him from all possible angles.

And then he's in the kitchen, caught in the eye of another storm of color and light and noise, and his breath trapped somewhere in the back of his throat as he tries to figure out what he's meant to do in this moment, and how Gaira's mother could possibly smile at the boy who's left her daughter with more bruises than he can even count.

(Gaira did the same thing, he realizes, when she opened the door and saw him on her porch. No one has ever looked at him like that. No one has ever been happy to see him.

This can't be real.)

"...Okay?" Five says, finally, when his sticky-slow brain eventually registers her offer of chai, like he has any clue what chai is. It's not like he'll turn his nose up at it, whatever they serve him — any food is good food, after all. You take what you can get and you count yourself lucky every night you don't go to bed hungry. He winces at the sound of his own voice in his ears, so small and pathetic in a way Number Five never is, and quickly tries to get back some modicum of control. He needs to do something, he needs to distract himself from the absolute clusterfuck going on in his head right now. "I-I can... help? With the table?" Is that allowed?

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For all that Five lives his life in a state of perpetual annoyance — and, honestly, with siblings like his, who wouldn't? — it's not too often that he finds himself genuinely, properly furious with much of anyone, at least not so long as they aren't a direct threat to his family (which, actually, happens far more often than you'd think, seeing as his siblings tend to attract vengeful enemies like rotten fruit attracts flies).

But right now, there's a clawing itch of white-hot rage scratching and bubbling up beneath his skin, so intense and all-consuming that he's literally seeing red, vision blurring and eyes burning and blood pounding in his ears, painfully loud, as April's words slowly piece themselves together in his brain.

"Let me get this straight," he says, very quietly, but his voice is as taut as a violin string, thrumming with anger. "You tracked down the Handler, and went all the way to Commission Headquarters to speak with her. Am I getting this right? Am I understanding it correctly? Tell me if I'm wrong, Becker, and if I'm not, then you'd better have a really good excuse for this."

@hvbris l plotted starter

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There wasn’t a time I didn’t have a brother. By the time my eyes opened, he was already here, but there’s so little time between us, he also can’t remember a time before me. Our origins blur into a single birth between us and so between us is a world and its beginning. I tell myself there’s not a world without my brother in it. I tell myself I’d follow him anywhere to keep the world from ending.

- Dustin Pearson, The World at its Beginning.