#『 ᴅᴇꜱᴄᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ʙʟɪɴᴅʟʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴘᴛʜꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢɪɴɢ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ. 』 - ic.

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@theseancekid​  said:  ❛    fucker  left  me  to  die.    ❜

                                      five  rolls  his  eyes,  and  knocks  back  his  scotch   —  it  does  little  to  quiet  the  creeping  dread,  filling  the  room  slow.   ❝  if  it  escaped  your  notice,  he  was  ready  to  leave  all  of  us  to  die,  back  there.  ❞   to  what?  power  his  doomsday  machine?  when  all  it  took  was  pressing  a  big  red  button?  five  goes  on,  in  breezy,  deadened  tone;   ❝   —   the  man purchased  children.  specifically  to  enact  psychological  warfare  on,  klaus.  did  you  really  think  he’d  get  warm  and  fuzzy  all  of  a  sudden?   ❞   god  knows  he  always  found  a  way  to  get  in  your  head.  even  as  a  ghost.  even  as  nothing  more  than  a  rotating  psychosis,  in  a  trauma-addled  brain.  five’s  posture  deflates,  brow  furrowing  impossibly  lower;   ❝  …  at  some  point,  we  have  to  stop  acting  surprised  when  he  finds  new  and  exciting  ways  to  fuck  us  over.  ❞   

—  ‘ he  loved  you  all  in  his  own  way '  was  what  pogo  would  insist.  love,  from  sir  reginald  hargreeves,  was  a  framed  portrait.  a  marble  statue  in  the  snow.  you  could  have  it,  when  you  were  dead.   (  the  water.  the  dread.  was  at  his  ankles,  now.  )   he  reaches  to  take  the  nearest  napkin,  plucks  a  pen  from  jacket  pocket.  a  distraction.  for  the  last  fraying  string.

❝  i  told  you.  ❞   five  continues,  low  —  now  immersed  in  his  own  manic  scrawling.  equation  over  equation.  there  was  still  something  to  unravel.  he  just  had  to  find  out  what  it  was.   ❝  … he  was  up  to  something.  it  just.  doesn’t  make  sense.  any  of  it.  it  doesn’t  —  ❞   it  doesn’t  feel  cathartic  to  say.  none  of  it  does.  there’s  no  gold-medal-prize  in  vying  for  most-fucked-up-by-dad.  the silence  that  follows  is  out  of  place,  and  the  pen  taps,  agitated,  on  the  table.  he  feels  like  the  boat  is  tipping.  

five  looks  up,  quiet,  now.   ❝  … i’m  glad  you’re  alive,  klaus.  but  it  doesn’t  make  sense.  ❞     

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@bledlose​  said:   the  violin  has  gone  quiet,  concert  finally  paused  in  the  wreckage  of  the  room.  the  silence  is  broken  only  by  the  ring  of  short  heels  against  ground.  viktor  is  not  looking  at  him  when  he  comes  into  five's  view,  but  when  he  does,  it  is  with  white  eyes.    he  regards  him  quietly,  as  though  deciding  his  worth.    'will    you    still    say    no?''    he  asks,  gentle,    'even    now?    i    know    what    you    look    like    tired,    five.''    a  blink,  and  he  is  closer.  bent  slightly  at  the  waist,  'i    don't    want    to    fight    you.''

                                     when  his  consciousness  surfaces  again,  it’s  to  the  staccato  of  blood  rushing  in  his  ears  —  to  an  old-familiar  ache  that  tugs  knots  in  the  sinew  of  his  frame.  failure,  of  course.  spelled  out  in  carnage  and  falling  dust.  blink,  breathe,  even  though  it  bruises.  the  ringing  ebbs,  finally,  to  silence.  to  the  dead  stillness  of  an  ocean  after  a  storm.  his  world  is  still  spinning.   

                        (  get  up,  number  five.  you  cannot  run  away  from  this.  )   

he  registers  the  blood  on  his  hands  dimly.  which  of  your  siblings  had  it  belonged  to?  they  lay  silenced  in  the  rubble  of  the  theatre.  as  the  music  rose  to  crescendo,  they  had  been  struck  down  one  by  one,  and  it  hadn’t  mattered,  any  of  it.  

you’re  too  late.  again.  he  had  run  from  this  for  a  long  time,  thinking  it  would  never  catch  up.  thinking  he  would  solve  the  equation,  when  it  mattered.  he  had  thought  once,  that  he,  and  the  shifting  hands  of  mortality,  had  an  understanding.  the  mortality,  of  his  reflection  in  an  empty  wasteland.  the  mortality  of  those  he  felled  in  the  name  of  the  timeline,  and  one  day,  the  death  that  would  permeate  beyond  it  all,  and  rot  the  earth  from  the  inside  out.  the  rot  that  would  originate  in  viktor.  

                       it  would  always  be  viktor,  wouldn’t  it?  

❝  i  am  tired.  ❞   five  agrees,  with  a  thin,  pained  smile,   ❝  like  you  wouldn’t  believe.  ❞   shoes  anchor  for  purchase  in  the  rubble,  to  push  himself  to  wobbly  knees,  slower  still,  to  unsteady  feet.   

               (  …  but  you  are  stubborn.  you  cannot  accept  your  failures,  and  that  is  why  you  will  never  learn.  )

fingernails  bite  into  palms,  curled  tight  to  white  knuckles.  if  you  could  just  turn  the  time  back.  if  you  could  change  this  moment.  blue  energy  crackles,  sharp  and  overwrought.  it  fizzles  out,  dies  between  his  fingers.  his  head  hurts.  he  burns  a  high,  dizzy  frequency,  catastrophic, all-consuming,  and  smoldering  monstrously  within  his  ribs.  not  again.  please,  just  not  again.  there’s  a  jagged,  hysterical  laugh  that  comes  loose.  his  grief  is  white-hot,  tangible;  the  blue  pulses,  and  it  fades  again.  blink,  breathe.  tired  was  not  the  word.  he  could  count  his  fraying  strings  on  one  hand. 

he  staggers  a  few  steps  before  he  falls  back  down,  and  the  the  collapsed  walls  of  the  theatre  tilt  and  make  funhouse  mirrors  in  his  peripherals.  into  his  path,  his  crosshairs. to  viktor,  moving  among  the  devastation  of  his  symphony,  eyes  like  burning  white  halos.  the  kind  of  biblical  that  could  carve  its  retribution  from  the  very  marrow  of  mankind,  if  it  so  chooses.  

he  swallows  the  taste  of  dust  coating  his  throat;  his  voice  breaks  around  his  desperation;  ❝ … i  need  you  to  listen  to  me,  viktor,  because  this  is  important.  ❞  five  closes  his  eyes.  behind  them,  the  fragment  of  a  child  on  the  other  side  of  a  glass  pane  looks  back.  you  should  have  known.  you  should  have  stayed.   ❝  there’s  still  time,  to  make  a  different  choice.  ❞   what  is  there  left,  but  to  buy  precious  seconds?  deny  the  inevitable,  the  cyclical  hell  of  his  own  design.

❝  just  tell  me  something,  ❞   sharp  blues  search  for  something  in  viktor’s  expression.  his  voice  comes  away  quieter,  barely  a  rasp;   ❝  is  this  what  you  want?  ❞   he  turns  his  gaze  to  their  siblings.  it  paints  a  familiar  scene,  and  he  has  to  blink  it  back.   ❝  i’ve  seen  it.  i  know  what  it  looks  like,  when  there’s  nothing  left.  and  i  couldn’t  change  it.  i  was  too  late.  ❞  

     (  don’t  you  remember?  when  you  couldn’t  find  him  in  the  collapsed  buildings?  )   

two  cold  stars  in  opposition.  once  more,  he  puts  himself  between  his  siblings. forces  an  evenness  where  there  is  none  left;

           ❝  spare  them,  viktor.  if  you  want  someone  to  blame,  i’m  right  here.  ❞  

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@bledlose​  said:    'brought    you    coffee.''    marcus  is  already  tucking  it  into  five's  hands  before  the  sentence  has  finished,  he  stands  just  inside  five's  room,  still  dressed  from  his  morning  workout.    'breakfast    together    in    fifteen.    you    &    i    are    on    snack  run    today,    so    if    you're    wanting    anything,    now's    the    time    to    say    something.''  

                                                     he  needed  a  bigger  whiteboard  —   this  one  was  beginning  to  look  closer  to  a  crime  scene,  or  a  madman’s  scrawlings,  with  red  marker  equations  from  end  to  end.  none  of  which  had  been  productive  in  answering  his  question  —  about  his  small,  deranged  doppelganger   that  had  magically  materialized  in  the  academy  foyer  a  day  before. 

at  first,  he’s  too  steeped  in  his  own  impatient  simmering  to  look  up,  to  offer  more  than  a  muttered,  distracted  ‘thank  you’  —   until  marcus  is  physically  placing  the  coffee  into  his wringing  hands.  five  offers  a  dry,  thin  smile;   ❝  why  don’t  you  ask  fei.  she’s  the  one  feeding  her  birds  all  the  trail  mix.  ❞   he  narrows  his  eyes  over  the  coffee  as  he  brings  it  to  his  lips;   ❝  if  i  come  to  breakfast,  can  we  talk  about  what  the  fuck  happened  yesterday?  ❞  

five  blinks  down  from  where  he’d  been  perched  on  his  desk,  irritability  steadily  reigned  in  to  just  vague  displeasure.  marcus  had  that  sort  of  effect,  and  so  did  freshly-brewed  coffee.   ❝  i  don’t  suppose  you’ve  given  any  thought  to  what  we’re  going  to  do  about  our  outstandingly  dimwitted  knockoffs,  have  you?  ❞   (  give  me  a  fucking  break;  the  umbrella  academy?  )   well,  they  were  pedestrian  copies  at  best,  and  spacetime-shattering  at  worst,  so  there  was  that  to  consider.  impatient  to  move  as  he  was,  ultimately,  he  trusted  marcus’  judgement.  and  unlike  their  dear  ben,  he  wasn’t  so  terribly  inclined  to  trip  over  himself  having  a  pissing  contest.

then,  it  wasn’t  exactly  their  skill  that  concerned  him.  five  falls  into  step  with  his  brother,  now,  gears  turning  visibly  behind  his  expression.  brows  furrow  down  in  thought;   ❝  … not  everything  they  said  was  total  bullshit,  if  you  were  wondering.  ❞   he  gestures  vaguely  with  his  coffee.   ❝  — statistically  unlikely,  and  an  unprecedented  paradoxical  anomaly  —   yes.  but  not  impossible,  ❞   he  glances  up  to  regard  marcus  placidly;   ❝  and  if  it’s  not  impossible,  marcus,  then  we  have  bigger  problems  than  property  damage  on  our  hands.  ❞

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@bledlose​​​  said:      ❛  you  don’t  have  to  keep  me  company,  i’m  fine  by  myself.  ❜    allison  except  she  Definitely  needs  company

                                yeah,  right;  the  saving-face  bullshit  doesn’t  work  on  him.  he  may  as  well  of  written   the  book.  he  knew  what  it  looked  like.  five  levels  a  pointed  look;   ❝  well,  ❞   he  begins,   ❝  it  may  not  really  be  my  department,  allison  —  but  you  don’t  need  to  lie  to  me.  ❞  

with  how  put-together  allison  always  was,  it  was  easy  to  forget  she  was just  as  fucked  up  as  the  rest  of  them.   where  some  of  their  siblings  were  open  books  when  something  was  on  their  mind  — diego’s  entire  expression  crumbled,  luther  looked  like  a  big,  mopey  puppy,  klaus  got  impossibly  louder  and  more  hysterical —   allison, she  was  harder. frustration  smoothed  out,  bitterness  withheld  in  the  sharpness  of  her  gaze,  daggered  words  carefully  arranged. it  had  been  that  way  as  kids,  too.  and  whatever she  said  about  it; she  was  number  three  —  a  pressure  he  had  once  envied,  but  knew  better  of  now.

❝ … i’m  saying,  you  can  talk  about  it,  or  not  talk  about  it.  but  no  one’s going  to  think  any  less  of  you.  ❞   and  dryly,  with  a   thin  smile;   ❝  our  idiot  brothers  do  it  all the  time,  completely  unprompted.  ❞   

 he  still  hasn’t  found  a  way  to  apologize  to  her  properly.  gaze  settles  somewhere  over  allison’s  shoulder,  and  five  sobers,  eases  up  a  touch;   ❝ …  maybe  you  feel  like  you’re alone,  but  you’re  not.  and  allison, you  never  will  be.  ❞   even  in  this  emotionally  stunted  shitshow  we  call  a  family.

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@hasknife​​  said: ❛  if  this  is  your  way  of  trying  to  make  me  feel  better,  you’re  fired.  ❜

                     five  gives  him  a  prim  look  over  his  coffee  mug;   ❝  great,  because  i  don’t  recall  signing  on  as  your  therapist,  diego.  ❞   five  waves  him  off  with  a  shoo-ing  motion,  and  resumes  thumbing  through  his  newspaper;   ❝  go  talk  to  klaus  if  you  want  to  have  a pity  party.  i  literally  did  not  ask.  ❞  

about  halfway  down  a  strip  of  archie,  five  flicks  glance  up  —  to  find  diego  still  looking  mildly  pathetic.  he  gives  a  sharp,  impatient  inhale.  ❝  but,  ❞   five  continues,  leans  elbows  over  knees.   ❝  if  i  cared   —   which  i  don’t   —   i’d  probably  suggest  you  apologize  to  her.  ❞   he  gestures  vaguely,  straightening  the  newspaper,  and  reclining  again.   ❝  can  go  a  long  way,  so  i’m  told.  ❞   

five  had  fairly  recently  decided;  lila  was  fine.  passable.  tolerable.  lila  was  jotted  firmly  in  his  list  of  neutral  distaste.  the  worst  part  about  lila,  by  far,  had  been  having  to  watching  his  idiot  brother  make  love-sick-puppy-dog-eyes  at  her.  five  sighs  through  his  nose;  ❝  … that,  and  your  gross  little  will-they-won’t-they  is  making  us  all  sick  to  our  stomachs.  ❞

[paradoxcd]

@bledlose​​  said:  he  almost  seems  to  thrum  with  nerves.  sweater  sleeves  still  rolled  up  to  his  elbows,  viktor  carefully  sets  the  raised  plate  down  on  the  table  before  five.  it's  not  beautiful,  by  any  means,    the  cake-  he  isn't  much  of  a  baker,  he's  found  out-  but  it  is  still  pretty.    'it's,   um.   it's   been   cooling,   so...''    his  smile  is  fleeting,  and  he  is  quick  to  move  along,  to  sit  across  from  his  brother.    'i   have   a    gift,   too.   thats...   that's   for   after,   though.       happy   birthday,   five.''

                                five  hasn’t  looked  up  from  his  crossword;   ❝  i  didn’t  know  you  baked,  ❞   he  says,  with  a  quirk  of  his  brow.  a  beat,  where  he  regards  the  cake  with  the  same  critical  eye  he  does  everything.   ❝  …  not  bad,  viktor.  ❞

so  it  was.  october  1st.  his  birthday,  all  of  their  birthdays.  how  normal,  he  thinks.  how  hilariously  mundane.  out  of  all  the  days  etched  into  a  crumbling  wall,  this  one  carried  a  bitterness.  it  was  a  reminder,  of  every  october  1st  he’d  seen  come  and  go,  alone.  all  because  of  one  stupid  equation.  

❝...  i  don’t  think  dad  remembered  our  birthday  once.  ❞   no  great  surprise;  the  old  man  hadn’t  bothered  to  name  them,  either.  that  had  been  mom’s  thing.  that’s  what  she  had  been  programmed  for.  five  smiles  wryly;   ❝  you  know,  you  get  to  my  age   —  and  they  all  kind  of  blur  into  one.  ❞   five  stares  at  the  cake  again  thoughtfully.  the  last  birthday  he  could  recall  spent  at  the  academy,  the  seven  of  them  had  snuck  off  to  griddy’s,  and  bought  as  many  donuts  as  their  pocket  change  could  afford.  he  wonders  how  much  viktor  remembers.  if  any  of  it  was  good.  

after  a  moment,  he  taps  his  knuckles  lightly  on  the  table,  and  he  sets  the  newspaper  aside.   ❝  … you  didn’t  have  to  do  anything,  viktor.  i  appreciate  the  sentiment.  ❞    five  clasps  his  hands;   ❝  i  wish  i  could  say  i  got  you  something  to  commemorate  an  apocalypse-free  birthday...  ❞   he  says,   ❝   but  i’ve  been  told  i’m  a  pretty  lousy  gift-giver.  ❞

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@theseancekid​​ said: ❝ What a great opportunity for bad decisions. ❞

big surprise--they’re gathering a few curious looks from the surrounding party-goers-- the two of them still manage to look vaguely cartoonish by comparison, even in formal-wear. on cue, five remembers to smile--polite and very-much forced--at a woman cooing in his general direction. --and maybe it isn’t a good look, to be tailing their father around a gala--as a truly mystifying pair of individuals--but a necessary one. of course, he’s not about to admit that dear old dad is just about the only lead he has. 

short exhale. he gives klaus a long, baleful look. “please spare me,” comes immediate deadpan, holding gala ticket just out of his brother’s grasp. “i know this might be difficult to wrap your head around, but we’re not here to socialize.” taps the name on the back of the invitation; “if anyone asks, you’re this guy, got it?” ideally, they’ll be in and out before they raise completely understandable suspicion. at the very least, as far as selection of siblings to accompany him goes, klaus can play a bit--and klaus might not try to kill anyone here. sidelong glance at his brother and a furrow of his brow; “--just... behave, please. i want to make this quick.” it’s said with vague beseeching--but he hopes the heat of his frown will convey how non-negotiable this is.   

of course, reginald hargreeves is a lot of things ( negligent father, empathically challenged, possibly a vampiric in nature-- ) but he isn’t stupid. and right now, your lack-of-plan is hinging on the desperate conviction that the old man ( might ) know something you don’t--let alone entertain your insane storyline. it’s a bit of a rose-tinted mantra he turns over in his head; dad would know. dad has to know. why else would he be in the middle of this mess?-- 

he casts careful glance over his shoulder, as though to survey the crowd for any lingering eyes. vision a pendulum swing around the room, quietly filing the faces of other guests into the back of his mind. he nudges klaus slightly, tone low; “...and keep your eyes open for dad, or anyone who looks out of place.” besides us.

[paradoxcd]

@conjuredead​​​ said: ❝ This is a fucking shitshow. ❞ ( heyo :3 )

and here we go; all together under one roof for hardly a day and their dumbest brothers are already causing a scene at a family gathering. in all reality, how could it possibly go any other way? but hey--it’s only the fate of the timeline and all human life as they know it, right? 

“hey, dipshits!” he throws ever-convincing, startlingly childish timbre across the room-- on his last shred of patience and just short of burying the nearest utensil in elliott’s kitchen table; “in case your goldfish brains forgot, we have more pressing issues than your unresolved inferiority complexes--” no amount of assertive hand gesturing on his part is quite enough to gain their audience, naturally--too busy jumping down each other’s throats--familiar and nostalgic, yes, but not in the way that’s enjoyable. five has just enough poised disinterest not to intervene, shifting slightly on his heels and folding arms--hoping this stance and the heat of his glare might convey the extent of his disappointment. team zero, they said. well, if the shoe fits--

so busy burning a hole in luther’s back with his eyes that he nearly misses what klaus has said--somehow the singular person in the room that bothers to acknowledge him. sigh is huffed through his nose; klaus isn’t wrong, and this is a frankly atypical thought pattern to be starting on. hand comes away from his face in an agitated gesture; “tell me again why i bother?” unfortunately, he can answer that for himself--for some reason, he had been in a real rush to oh, you know, save his family from the imminent apocalypse. but maybe they’d just prefer to tear themselves apart as-par-the-fucking-course.

in lieu of snapping, haunched shoulders roll back to recompose; furrow stiff to his brow when he pulls back to klaus’ side with strained smile. “...do you think it’s too late to excommunicate myself from this family?” there’s a blink of barely-contained salt beneath his even-keel, as he returns attention to his behaving brother. back turns on the commotion; they can tire themselves out for all he cares. he wears a tired, pressed calm; “klaus, do you still have that whiskey?”

[paradoxcd]

@hysteir​​ said: ‘ i swear to god, if you get blood on me … ’ dont worry they are Concerned

hand curling white-knuckled in kennedy’s sleeve, blinking them behind the nearby wall before the blue glow fragments and dims at his fingertips. grip loosening, he allows himself to collapse down to size--small shock to knees, hands carefully finding where the shrapnel has caught him in the side. ( has to be removed, but unsure what has been hit ). gives small, stifled noise. his own human error, not quite quick enough on his feet when he pulls them both through the veil--explosion shaking the building on their heels.

“...you’re welcome, by the way.” he mutters, lips in a strained thin line--teeth pressing into each other to stifle a slow-moving, radiating pain. all drywall dust and bloodsmear--he can still manage minute roll of the eyes in kennedy’s direction. you’ve survived worse. you’ve survived the end of everything, again and again and again--wouldn’t it be ironic? hedging in one last tragic footnote? but you won’t die. you still have things to do here. still, spell of dizziness comes to swing for his composure, sending him to the ground each time he tries to resist--eventually relenting to maneuver himself, back against crumbling brick.

companion is speaking, words floating in and out of peripherals--hazy gaze listed, unfocused, past kennedy’s face. fingers come away red from where glass protrudes; it’s not that bad. you’ve seen worse. ( but even now, knees want to pull in to protect the injury, curl into himself ). head lilts slightly to the side to regard them--with the limited severity he can muster. eyebrows furrow down, quietly serious, or irritated, or worried. “that was really stupid, you know.” but they’re still young. chest heaves with somewhere between rattled breath and laugh. and five watches their expression--knows this look from every reflection in a dirty puddle, and shattered shop window. scared, scared to trust anyone but yourself.

[paradoxcd]

@kitefell​ said: “where are you hurt? Is all of this from you?” /local man shows up thirty seconds late to wild brawl/

chuck had walked in at a strange time. he’s not entirely sure he’s going to have any explanations he’ll like, either--on how the four armed men ended up in heaps on the floor around him, head to toe red-spattered. call it performance art, or reasonable force.

and then it’s hovering hands in his peripherals, the worried sort of way he imagines parents who love their children are. and by now he’s no stranger to being fussed over like the child his faulty equation had spat him out as--but he isn’t built to accept anyone’s pity. or maybe chuck’s unconditional humanity is troubling to begin with. the kind of man hurt easily--heart on his sleeve where it can be thoroughly gutted. gaze drops off--he gestures vaguely over his shoulder; 

“not mine,” concise, to-the-point. bloodied butterknife used to dispatch half the room  is finally set down in shaky, trigger-finger hand. surrounding walls turn a nauseating sort of sideways and for now, he focuses on remaining upright. finally has the time to take inventory of himself, collar carefully straightened, one cufflink adjusted at a time. he finds, eventually, where academy uniform fabric is torn--nearly perplexed when fingers come away dark red. short exhale; “...i stand corrected.” more an irritated afterthought than anything, evident in the acute pinch of his brow. and it’s like his body remembers to catch up--riptide dizziness blinked back. after all this stubborn insistence, battery finally grazes critical--how inconvenient. 

his hand lands on chuck’s arm with a firm pat, intent to continue past him. instead, his knees buckle under him, and he has to steady, fingers latched into sleeve fabric. eyebrows furrow down against the dull pulse of pain, like he has to process and puzzle out the sentiment. teeth sink into tongue, he tries to hiss; “...i’m fine, don’t be stupid.” he cares and you don’t know what to do with that, you have no need for it. you wouldn’t know what to do with sentiments like these. soft frown crosses his face; maybe you remind him of someone. ( you move through time and space like a careening plane. you burn through what you need to burn through to get to the other side. ) 

“i’m fine,” he repeats, more quietly. careening is the swoop of hazy black over his vision--rapid blink and he’s wondering, now, if maybe the wrong wire has been cut. this could be it, and wouldn’t that be anticlimactic? --it’s strange to feel frightened, really frightened, after all these years. fingers curl tighter in chuck’s jacket as rickety beams in his frame start giving in. “i just. i just need to rest my eyes, for a minute.” 

[paradoxcd]

frankly my tags are pretty good so far 

[paradoxcd]

@handlcr​​ said: she’s not unconscious. she’s dead.

words strike a red mark, un-stitch a wound; he’s not sure how long she’s been standing there. he supposes it doesn’t matter much to him, anymore. it all doesn’t fucking matter. and still—he has become acclimatized to her intervention; it is always here, in red heels, stepping into his worst moments--must have them neatly logged in her calendar by now. or maybe she just liked to watch him spin his wheels, run himself into labyrinthine walls at every corner. unlike the day she had appeared among decay in his crosshairs, though ( wary line to humanity, hope, something-- ) he doesn’t imagine it’s a deal she’s here to extend. his own fault, really--could never quite fit into the boxes the commission required of him. 

and wreckage in the street is different, but it’s the same picture. ( despite everything, to wind up here, again, tastes like ash. ) crushed under it--time, like some immovable thing dragging its weight ever forward. and everything else--variables that orbit, polarizing around him--the thing cursed to be a fixed point in the fallout.  

knelt by his sister’s side, hands hover and hesitate-- ( and he has never really known what to do with his hands ).   all of them—they lay almost exactly where his memory had left them. buried in rubble, peaceful in open graves. he has been here before, and still he nudges each one, listens for pulse, repeats their names quiet, terrified, like a child. ( wake up. i’m sorry. please ). white knuckled fingers curl to fists, nails pressing angry half-moons into his palms, willing fragmented void pieces—time and space—to bend, just once, please god just once can it go right—chokes on a sob as cold blue energy fizzles out at his fingertips--circuit blown and overworked, not for the first time. worthless; trapped in the moment he has to change. after all this time, you’re still not good enough.

she must find some satisfaction here--for all the things personal to her and not that he has burned in his path. a tornado of swirling hateful cloud--everything beyond repair, no bridge as viciously burned as this one--not that he finds her deserving of his apologies. he doesn’t care to compose this time, hands shaking where they move rocks and debris, a slow, concentrated process. most appalling, maybe, is that she knows this about him;  how often it is just this-- desperation and weakness, no height he wouldn’t throw himself from to catch the sliver of a chance to save just a dear handful of lives. how many he has killed--never once acknowledging where he buries the guilt-- to stand here in the same ashes he had started in. isn’t this pathetic, isn’t this novel?

he doesn’t bother to compose, this time—to even cast a look back at her ( pride and hope and meaning in his hands, singed feathers and snapped ribs ). shoulders sink and voice returns quiet, missing something in its cold shine; 

“what do you want?” 

[paradoxcd]

@shallowcuts​​​ said: “that looks broken.”

she’s picked pretty competent ones this time—just about noteworthy—as one blonde goon throws his frankly inconsequential weight, repeatedly, into gaudy wallpaper. blink too-confident lets his swedish adversary catch him at the wrist--no hesitation--twist swift and violent. sound that can be nothing else, tears yelp from his throat. surprised, maybe, at the lack of hesitation--( or the ugly creak of bone ). blindsiding is the radiating pain and the sharp taste of adrenaline--blinks from firm grasp, lands near diego in time to dodge a hail of gunshots over the furniture. half glance around to walls decorated in throwing knives and bullet holes. elliott would probably be understanding.

last sputtering burst of his energy and he’s curling good hand in diego’s sleeve, forcing the fizzle of void to his fingertips. in a blink, they’re gone—landing gracelessly in familiar alleyway. he barely catches himself, shoes skittering on impact with the pavement. instinct sends quick glance over his shoulder--until he’s sure they have a minute to spare. and then, only then does battered frame bend and consider collapse. stubborn, he still goes to flex wrist--finds fingers can only twitch weakly. it’s the sort of twinging ache that soon gives way to a prickling numbness down his wrist. it’s broken. no shit. cuts a frosty look up at his brother. 

“i’m aware, you idiot.” tone comes out spitting, positively livid with the circumstances, or this setback, or himself. it’s a sort of unconvincing sway on his feet, something dizzying he has to blink back in order to compose. you’re fine. there are other things--there are always other things. maybe diego hadn’t, for once, deserved his wrath—but maybe it was worse to admit that this was about to limit him, in the middle of their very time-sensitive problems. it was stupid to think they’d play under the handler’s radar without her constant, irritating interventions.

jaw sets, fury finding the pinch in his brow, and hisses; “don’t--touch it. i’m fine.” it’s certainly his intention to walk, but knees buckle slightly—cage of wiry, knotted up threads finally undoing. “...spare me your diagnoses and just— move, we don’t have time.” a less-than-careful cradling of injured arm, and then a quick once-over of his brother to identify any injuries. even his concern sits stiff against his teeth; “...are you hurt?”

[paradoxcd]

@rvmovrhasit​​  cont. 

        After  the  FIGHT  in  her  home  had  ended,  Allison fell on  her  living  room  chair,  exhausted,  facing  the  corpse  of  her  assaulter.  Five  had  come  to  see  why  she  hadn’t  shown  up  to  go  home,  but  honestly who  could  even  worry  about  that  with  two  giant  men  in  your  living  room  ready  to murder  you  and  your  family ? And  even WORSE, she  had  used  her  ability. In  an  awful  way.  She  was  still  deciding  whether  to feel  bad or relieved  when  Five  asked  her.  Was  that  CONCERN  she  was  getting  from  his  tone  of  voice ?  ( she  must  have  imagined  it  )           

        “  I  think  some  assassins  or  something.  You  mentioned  some Swedes ?  I  think  they  were  from  East  Europe, but  I’m  not  sure.  You  can  check  for  yourself. ” she  gestured  at  the  dead  body  right  in  front  of  her,  lying  in  the  middle  of  their  couch.  They  had  to  take  care of  it  soon,  but  she  needed  to  breathe  first.  She  also  needed  to  make  sure  Raymond  wasn’t freaking  out  too  much,  but  her  brother  demanded  her  attention.

it had been a simple task; “get to the alley, don’t be late”. this one thing. just this one fucking thing--- but there’s something like worry, sharp and bitter-tasting that touches every fried nerve ending, and settles into the lines of his frown. you can relax your shoulders now, but you won’t. allison is fine--hurt, and with a dead swede on her floor, but fine. allison can handle herself. but that doesn’t levy the responsibility on his shoulders--the fact that he’d pulled the keen focus of the commission’s wrath on his family. the fact that he’d scattered them through time because he couldn’t harness his own abilities. the fact that for the second time in two weeks, he’s going to have to solve the apocalypse somehow. or stumble head-first into it, like their family often does.

he’s only barely aware, or interested, in the singular living, non-hargreeves in the room.  pleasantries with his siblings’ personal attachments rank low on the priority list on a good day, non-existent when the world tips in the balance of them meeting one simple deadline. anyway--he’s not known for his impeccable first impressions--hopes the vaguely forced smile in raymond’s direction will suffice. “hi. allison’s brother, a pleasure. i hope you didn’t like this carpet.” he’s just as soon back to business, giving the blood-spattered area rug a harsh tug from under the coffee table.

“yes--” he mutters, “blonde, inbred-looking, dumb as bricks--you know. like him.” shoe nudges the leg of their motionless goon--no doubt another commission lackey. surveying the corpse with a frown, he carefully tugs sleeve up--prospects how much heavy-lifting he’s about to do. “you didn’t happen to kill the--” pause as he begins dragging the body down to the carpet--at his present stature, an embarrassingly difficult feat. there’s a distinct thud of dead-weight hitting living room floor. “--last one, did you?” there were three--at least, he thinks so. and one was recently toasted. and this one is in the middle of being carefully rolled in a carpet. “...because if not, we’ve got one more problem.”

[paradoxcd]

@apochestriia​​​ said: i don’t think i can do this.

pacing, hands pocketed in his blazer--he’s been off on a tangent, running the numbers in his head and talking them through to himself out-loud. ( not used to having an audience to the wildly fast meanderings of his thought-process, not used to taking second opinions ). --not quite registering the change in vanya’s demeanor until she speaks, loud, clear-cut enough to halt him. when he turns on heel, she’s met him halfway.

jaw sets; he levels her with his irritation--first inclination to be sharp with her, impatience a hairpin trigger that tenses his entire posture. try as he might to be the legal requirement of sympathetic with his siblings, they don’t exactly have the luxury of talking out any more interpersonal issues just now. first syllables from between his teeth are clipped; “yes, you can--you have to. are you even listening? you may not remember, or like it, but you’re a very real part of this equation.” and by the end, there’s less salt--less severity--to the tone he takes with her. instead, a distinct conviction; that she was needed, that she be a part of this, that he wasn’t leaving without her. maybe after everything, it’s what she needs to hear.

when you sound like your father, it should bother you--not even family spared from your bristling and poison. maybe you’d forgotten how to be any other way. anyway--can he really blame her? for wanting to stay, to exist without the burden of knowledge--to jump at the chance of some fucking normalcy after the pain they’d failed--all failed--to protect her from? he knows--of course he knows--if anyone deserved to want out, it’s vanya. but it isn’t that easy--would never be. not for her, the ticking time bomb; not for him, hands red--a haunted house swaying on his feet.

short exhale--pinches the bridge of his nose, and reworks it in his head.

“...none of this is fair, vanya. i get it. and i’m sorry. this couldn’t have been easy for you.” gaze softens, under the serious line of his brows. “...being alone, not knowing where to go next,” careful pause, “--or who you would be--if that one little thing had gone differently.” he wrings hands--hands never-quite sure if it’s alright to land on a shoulder. “...we need you to be there. i need you to be there, okay?” for once, his voice settles into something more genuine. it shouldn’t surprise him--newfound empathy for the broken people his brothers and sisters have become in his absence--that at the end of the day, they are still the very most important thing. the only thing ever worth bleeding for. and he needs all of them. 

sentimental of you. time to go. five shifts on his shoes, drops his gaze; “besides,” he straightens shoulders, busies restless feet again. passing her side, he fixes vanya with the pointed upturn of a smile; “...you’re not leaving me to babysit our dimwitted brothers.”

[paradoxcd]

@fogleader​​ said: i trust that you will be on your best behavior tonight. /they're going to ihop/

eyes list up to flickering-out sign in neon blue--lighthouse beam in the night hours to guide many a traveler to weird, fluorescent refuge off the highway. he supposes he’s not too different--stranded out here, yet again, without the stupid briefcase--waiting for the next time the dumb and dumber catch up with him. --and maybe all this has less to do with enjoying a remarkably mediocre cup of coffee, and more to do with the liminality--or the universal, fixed point a diner provides in the holy mess every timeline he touches seems to become. of course, he’s also become a creature of habit in his old age--and caffeine-dependency would probably be one way to put it.

he would be incensed, he thinks, if this were anyone else. but fairfield is both in possession of a tolerable iq, and is one person of a sparse handful he’d trust to understand the intricacies of the mess he was in ( --make some friends your age, they said ). he refrains from arguing--pocketing hands and shifting somewhat impatiently on his heels. skips slightly to catch up, and scoffs; ”oh. behave? really?” he can do that--if no commission patsies decide to join them. if no one calls him ‘young man’. if no one argues with him about the coffee, black-- he frowns up at dwight; “you're hilarious.”

eyes narrow, accompanying his best shot at innocence in the upturn of a smile--and he’s moving with purpose, ahead of dwight toward the door. “...i will if they will,”  he offers over his shoulder, and when dwight doesn’t immediately budge, there’s a pause--drawn-out roll of his eyes and he’s relenting approximately half-way; “...but the next crayon someone hands me is going through their eye--”