#five hargreeves | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mangoshorthand · 11 hours ago

Text

A Hargreeves Christmas Carol | Five Hargreeves/ F Reader | Ch3

SUMMARY: Luther is the sort of idiot who goes around with a 'Merry Christmas' and a goofy smile on his lips. In your opinion, he should be roasted with his own turkey and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. Who better to teach you the error of your ways than Luther's brother, the man who holds the power of Christmases Past, Present, and Yet to Come in the palm of his hand? Info/Announcement Post << Read Chapter Two

Chapter Three (Rated T, 4.2k words)

The Second of the Three Spirits

“What’s up sweetie? You got a look on your face like a wet weekend.”

“It’s nothing, Grandma.”

She looked down at you in that sharp, purposeful way of hers, the rhinestone necklace she always wore catching the light

You were sitting at the corner booth, homework spread out across the table so she could keep an eye on you as she worked.

“Hey Maggie,” came a voice from the bar, “can I get a beer over here?”

“Hold on, Earl.” she shot back over her shoulder, bleach-blonde perm flicking from one shoulder to the other, “You could stand to wait for a beer now and again, seeing how often you buy ‘em.”

Earl grumbled something or other, but knew better than to push her buttons.

Decisively, she pulled out a chair across the table from you and sat down upon it.

“Spit it out, girlie. Time’s money, and we don’t wanna keep old Earl waiting.”

You looked up from your algebra and sighed.

“Mom was supposed to call today.”

“I see,” she said, a shadow passing over her face, “And she stood you up again, huh?”

You nodded.

She considered you for a second, and then called back over her shoulder.

“Hey, Earl?”

“Uh-huh?”

“How about a margarita on the house?”

“Yeah,” he said, surprised.

She turned back to you, eyes agleam and full of fun.

“I’m gonna teach you how to make one,” she said.

You looked at her questioningly.

“That’s right,” she said, “One day, all this is all gonna be yours, y’know, and I’m not getting any younger.”

She called back over her shoulder at Earl.

“Do I look like I’m getting any younger, Earl?”

“Yes ma’am, every day,” he said, dutifully, and she rolled her eyes at you before she continued.

“I’ll be damned if I leave this place to someone who can’t shake a decent marg.”

She held out a hand, twinkling at you, and you took it, grinning.

“Come on, darling,” she said, leading you to the bar with a fond squeeze of your hand, “I’m gonna teach you to make the best margarita in the state.”

If Christmas was your busiest time of year, then March was probably the slowest, and it was on one such Friday night that Five first came to your bar alone. Before that night, he’d only visited with Luther and his wife, Sloane. Each time, you covertly shot appreciative glances at one another across the room, looking away hastily if ever you happened to look at the same time.

When he ordered drinks, he’d usually hang around a little - taking a break from Luther and Sloane, he said - and the conversation always flowed well between you whenever you could catch a couple of minutes to exchange a word. He was quick, sardonic, and his cynicism appealed to your own.

Both brothers were handsome, but Five was handsome in a unique way. In his suits he was effortlessly sophisticated, the way he held himself commanding and authoritative; his face equally delicate and masculine. His presence never failed to stand head and shoulders above that of anyone else in the room, the subtle scent of cologne that followed him just serving to underline his quiet magnetism.

So, on the quiet night he entered alone, your heart didn’t quite skip a beat, but it maybe stuttered.

“Evening,” he said, eyeing the almost empty bar.

“What can I get you?” you asked, as he sat on a stool at the end of the bar.

Though neither of you knew it, it would be the stool at which Luther sat around nine months later, extolling the virtues of Christmas.

“I’ll have a margarita, if you please.”

He flashed you his lopsided smile, and you looked away quickly. He might be cute, but you weren’t going to put yourself in danger of dropping your panties for him. Men spelled nothing but trouble and distraction.

You took up one of the many shakers stacked against the wall and readied the tequila.

“Oh,” Five said, waving a hand, “I’ll have it blended, not shaken.”

“No you won’t,” you replied, shortly, measuring first the Patrón and then Cointreau into the shaker.

“So you’re particular about your margaritas?” Five said, removing his blazer and placing it carefully on the stool beside him, an eyebrow raised.

“No point in drinking it if you don’t make it properly.”

“Fair enough.”

Methodically, he unbuttoned his collar and each of his shirt cuffs, rolling the sleeves to his elbows, all the time watching you as added the lime juice and agave, pouring them in a confident stream through their bottle pours.

“You’re good at this,” he said, impressed, as you added a scoopful of ice.

“I should be,” you remarked, “I could make a margarita before I could drive a car.”

“Misspent youth?” he asked, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the bar.

Again, that maddening smile, intelligent eyes flashing with character.

“A bartender for a grandmother,” you corrected him, unable to help smiling yourself as you scooped ice into the shaker.

“Yeah?” he asked, “You followed in her footsteps?”

“Mmhm. This used to be her place, and she left it to me. It’s called Maggie’s after her.”

“So your youth was spent learning the ropes, huh?”

“Yup.”

As you started to shake the cocktail, you couldn’t help noticing him trying very hard to keep his eyes on your face and not on your chest, shaking along with the margarita in the tank top you were wearing. The observation amused you, and you smirked, making Five chuckle involuntarily, and look down at his own fingers.

Your eyes followed his, to where one of his thumbs was rubbing slightly uncomfortably against a long forefinger. You had a weakness for hands and forearms, and Five’s were no doubt as appealing to you as your chest was to him. Veins, bone, and sinew formed sculptural lines on porcelain skin, adorned here and there by freckles and scarring.

When you were done shaking, Five apparently trusted himself to look up at you again, and you pulled your eyes off his arms long enough to pour salt onto a plate.

“No salt, thanks.”

“You’re trying the salt,” you said, in a tone that would tolerate no argument, “I’ll give you a half rim so you can drink from the other side if you don’t like it, but my margaritas have salt rims.”

“You’re the boss,” he said, hands held up in a gesture of surrender.

You looked up at him and allowed yourself to indulge just a little longer in this banter.

“You’re a quick learner.”

“I know my place,” Five said, with a cocky raise of his eyebrows.

He was fun to flirt with, that was hard to deny.

“Keep up that attitude and you’ll be my favorite customer in no time.”

“I think I’d like that,” he said, voice laced with a hint of husky enthusiasm. Then, to smooth over what he seemed to consider a faux pas, he made a self-deprecating gesture: “It would be a first. I find people are usually happier to see me leave than arrive.”

You couldn’t resist the opening this gave you:

“Perhaps they just enjoy watching you go.”

Five’s demeanor cracked, and he gave a rare genuine smile that showed his teeth.

When the drink was poured, you pushed it to him and held out your hand for the money.

“Best margarita in the state.”

He paid up, and as he reached out for the glass, you said:

“Try it with the salt first and tell me what you think.”

“Okay,” he said, though sounding skeptical.

Eyes on yours, he touched his lower lip to the salted side of the glass, and took a sip.

“Oh shit,” he said.

“Good?”

He nodded, looked at the glass and let out a small groan of pleasure.

“I’ll never drink a margarita without salt again.”

“And don’t have it blended,” you said, wagging a finger at him, “frozen margaritas are for bachelorette parties.”

He gave an ironic salute.

“Only shaken classic from now on unless I’m at a bachelorette party.”

The cute little salute suddenly made you feel the necessity of bowing out of this conversation. You were already finding him too charming, and you darted out from behind the bar to collect a few abandoned glasses from tables, wiping them down as you went and leaving Five to enjoy his drink.

You couldn’t avoid him forever, though, and when you retook your position behind the bar, you found yourself gravitating towards him like a moth to a flame.

You were only human, after all.

The next couple of hours passed in chat, you trying desperately to keep a lid on the flirtation, but finding it increasingly hard as his third margarita loosened his lips. He was witty, a sharp observer, and he told tales so tall that only Luther’s confirmation later let you believe them.

“And so,” he said, “I’m in a suspended quantum state, right? Except I got the calculations wrong when I was proving the upper bound for the number of limit cycles for planar polynomial vector fields of fixed degree. Dumb. So I go through the portal and boom. I’m thirteen again.”

You raised your eyebrows skeptically.

“You never notice how I look so much younger than Luther?” he pointed out, “I’m years behind and years in front.”

“I just thought you had really good moisturizer or something.”

“No,” he said, with an uncharacteristic giggle, “I’m an old-ass man.”

“You’re a drunk-ass man.”

“Maybe a little,” he said, sucking a little salt off the tip of his finger.

There were a couple of salt crystals on his chin, you noticed.

Without thinking, you took up a napkin, leaned over the bar and wiped them away. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth as you did so, and your breath caught softly at the warmth of his skin.

His eyes never left yours as you touched him. He was looking at you seriously, as if the answers to one of those incomprehensible math problems might be found in your eyes.

“What time do you finish tonight?” he asked.

You withdrew your hand quickly and checked your watch, trying to throw off the small moment.

“I close at half midnight.”

“And afterwards you’re -”

“Going to sleep.” you said.

And then, to throw a final bucket of cold water on any remaining ambitions:

“Alone.”

“Of course,” he said, getting the message as he swallowed the last dregs of his margarita, “Tiring work, right?”

“Tiring work,” you repeated.

You stumbled when the briefcase deposited you somewhere new, and Five let go of your sweater immediately.

You were in an ornate entrance hall with marble-tiled flooring and a sweeping, imposing staircase leading onto a gallery. Five threw his coat over the bannister and avoided your eye.

“We’re back,” he said, “There’s a phone beside the door. Use it to call yourself a cab if you want.”

“What?”

“I’m done,” he said, “come tomorrow or don’t, I don’t give a shit any more.”

“But -?”

Five disappeared with a whoosh and a hint of static electricity.

“- what about nuclear armageddon?” you called, hoping that he might hear you wherever he reappeared.

There was no answer, and you were left alone to cower alone in the intimidating foyer, the staircase towering above you.

There were quiet voices to your right, where archways leading off from the hall revealed a huge living room with another high gallery above.

Based on Five’s dumping of his coat, you concluded that this must be another part of the Umbrella Academy, and you suddenly felt even more awkward, standing alone and uninvited in their home on Christmas Eve.

Thankfully, not even Five’s angry voice seemed to have alerted the occupants of the living room to your presence, so you crept towards the front door, hoping to make a hasty exit.

“I wish she did come,” came a female voice, “I’d give her a piece of my mind to chew on and let her choke on it. Luther hasn’t been himself since.”

You felt your face heating up, pretty sure you already knew who Sloane was talking about. It was painful, embarrassing to overhear, and it made your stomach squirm with shame.

“Is she the one who owns Maggie’s?” said another woman’s voice, this one British-sounding.

“Mhm,” Sloane replied, sounding resentful.

“I did hear she’s a bit of a dragon-lady,” came the reply.

Someone made a noise signalling disagreement, but Sloane spoke over the voice:

“She’s a total nightmare Lila,” she seethed, sounding as if her feelings were just finding vent after holding them in for far too long, “Robbie - that’s the bartender - he’s been working there for years, but she micromanages him like crazy. She’s obsessed with profits: hovering over him to make sure he’s not using too many paper towels or whatever.”

You winced at this description of yourself. Micromanaging? Yes, you were conscious of wastage, but this was an exaggeration.

“Come on Sloane,” came a voice even more familiar than hers.

You stopped dead on your careful creep towards the front door and looked around. It was Five, holding a glass of wine and swinging his legs up onto a coffee table as he spoke.

“She’s just trying to keep the business going.” he continued, “It can’t be easy for an independent bar these days.”

“Of course you’d defend her.” Sloane replied, testily.

It started to dawn on you what you were seeing.

“Hey?” you said, loudly, walking into the room and towards Five, “Hey, Five?”

None of them acknowledged you and, when you advanced further, none of them looked up either.

“Hey?” you said again, reaching out a hand to a thin, curly-haired man wearing leather pants and a spectacular sequined blouse.

When you went to tap his shoulder, your hand went straight through it, confirming your suspicions beyond a doubt. You backed up into the entrance hall, just as Luther emerged from a nearby door and went to join the others in the living room.

“Five?” you yelled, trying to throw your voice to wherever he might be in this sprawling house, “You set the briefcase wrong! We’re still in a…” you cast your mind around for the description he used, “- read only visit!”

You waited a couple of seconds but found no answer forthcoming.

“Five!” you called again, “I think it’s Christmas day! We’re a day late!”

You stood at the foot of the stairs for a few moments and, when it became clear that Five either couldn’t hear or didn’t care about your repeated calls, you placed one foot on the stairs with half a mind to search for him, but more faint talk from the living room made you hesitate.

“You okay big man?” came the playful tone of the man in sequins.

“Of course I am,” Luther replied.

It didn’t sound like him. His voice was usually friendly and enthusiastic, but he sounded subdued.

Having already met the fate of the eavesdropper in overhearing unpleasant things about yourself, you figured that you didn’t have much to lose by exercising your curiosity further, so you moved back to one of the archways to watch the scene within.

The living room matched the entrance hall in length, though was somewhat narrower. The family were sitting in the centre of the room, immediately before a merrily crackling fire in the middle of the long wall. Above this was a portrait of a Five who looked closer in age to the one you’d just seen than the one in the room - although it was hard to tell given that it was adorned with a false mustache and a Santa hat.

Luther and Five were sitting in armchairs which had the air of having been purposely dragged nearer the couches from their place by a second mantle at the head of the room. That space was instead devoted to a twelve foot christmas tree, decorated with twinkling lights and a mess of decorations.

There were eight people in total, the other six spread across the two couches. On one was Sloane, the sequin clad man, and an unknown woman, at whose feet sat another short, brunette man, legs stretched out in front of him on the carpet; on the other couch was the British woman and a man who was clearly her partner, sitting with his arm around her.

The Five in the armchair was wearing what looked like the same suit pants, shirt and tie in which he’d appeared at your apartment, but with a nice knit sweater over it. It looked like good quality wool, and it reeked of a freshly opened Christmas gift. While he looked relaxed, he was also giving off vibes of one merely tolerating this situation.

Luther, on the other hand, was looking forlornly over at the Christmas tree. This did not go unnoticed by his wife, who watched him with concern.

“Let’s play a game!” she said, brightly, the tone clearly targeted to combat her husband’s low mood.

Five gave a small roll of his eyes as the others made general noises of assent.

“Charades!” the Lila said, immediately.

“Charades?” grumbled her partner.

“Shut up, Diego,” she scolded, slapping him on the arm.

So this was Diego. His face rang a faint bell as the child whose brother had kicked him.

“Yeah, shut up Diego,” said the man in sequins playfully, “charades is a classic.”

Perhaps it was the way he imitated Lila, but this made you recognize him too: this was Klaus, the one who kicked Diego while they watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

“I like charades,” Luther said, childlike eagerness back in his voice, “let’s do teams!”

“Great!” Sloane said, looking relieved that her plan seemed to have been met with a good level of enthusiasm, “Four a side? One team comes up with the prompt and then one member of the other team has to act it out to the other three?”

“Sounds good,” Klaus said, positively bouncing at the prospect of what, to you, seemed a pretty horrible idea, “but split up the couples. None of that lovers’ telepathy.”

“Yeah, said Luther, looking over at the final couple, “Viktor, how about you go with Sloane, Deigo, and Five. And Annabelle, do you wanna go with me, Lila and Klaus?”

Viktor looked searchingly up at Annabelle, checking her comfort level, but found her looking more than happy to oblige.

“No,” said Five, “I’m not playing.”

“You’ve gotta play,” Diego said, or you’ll mess up the teams.

“I thought you hated charades? If you sit out too it can be three on three.”

“I don’t hate charades,” Diego said, “And I think our team has a pretty good shot of winning this thing.”

“Whatever,” Lila snorted, “we’re gonna wipe the floor with you.”

“Come on, Five,” wheedled Klaus. “It won’t take long.”

“I don’t care,” Five said, deliberately, “I will not be playing.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t feel like playing the world’s worst game and making an idiot out of myself.”

“It’s Christmas,” Luther said, “you gotta make an idiot out of yourself. Come on man, the teams!”

Five betrayed a flicker of irritation.

“I don’t give a shit if it’s Christmas, Diwali, or Yom Kippur, I would rather stick my balls in a blender.”

“Don’t tempt me,” mumbled Diego.

“Come on Five,” Luther replied, that forlorn look coming back to his face, “let me get you a nice scotch. This is supposed to be what Christmas is all about: sharing time with family doing silly stuff.”

Five looked back at him scornfully.

“Then Christmas is shit.”

“Five,” Viktor said, giving him a pointed look that seemed to signal Annabelle, “can we try to get along please?”

“I’m not the one making it hard to get along,” Five said, with a false smile which did little to hide the fact he was speaking through gritted teeth, “It’s Luther here trying to turn everyone into Kris fucking Kringle who’s causing the problem.”

“Here we go again,” said Sloane, apparently reaching the end of her tether, “we get it, you want to get in her pants. It doesn’t mean you have to defend her honor.”

“Fuck you,” Five retorted.

Lila began to snigger, Klaus giggled, and Viktor shot a pained, apologetic look to Annabelle.

“Apologize,” Luther said to Five, angrily, springing to his feet.

Five just scoffed and shook his head.

“Apologize to Sloane!” Luther repeated, lunging towards Five and grabbing the front of his sweater with one hand.

Five vanished from Luther’s grip and appeared a short distance away, his hands determinedly in his pockets and chin jutted defiantly towards his brother.

“Guys, stop it!” Viktor cried, angry and upset.

“Ooh, it’s kicking off!” said Lila, catching the eye of Viktor’s horrified girlfriend and giving her a wink.

“I’m sick of this, Five!” Luther shouted, “Why do you gotta push everyone away? Can’t you just share this with us!? I’ve been up since five am cooking to try and make a nice day for everyone, and you can’t play one game of charades? Christmas is about everyone pitching in to make everyone else’s day a-”

But Five interrupted him in a sharp, incredulous tone:

“Oh, spare me the heartwarming speech! You’re never going to get the whole world to follow your Christmas regime! Based on what you told me, I thought you would have learned that at Maggie’s yesterday!”

At this, Luther looked a lot like the little boy who, so long ago, lashed out against Five after getting hit in the eye: hurt driving his turmoil.

“I invited her mostly for you!” Luther stormed, “I was trying to give you an opportunity to see each other outside of that bar! I’ve seen the way you look at her, how you spend fifteen minutes at a time ordering drinks, how long you spend doing your hair before we go! You’re so in love with her, it’s pathetic to watch!”

You blinked, taken aback. Mouth agape, your head swivelled to Five as if you were watching a tennis match.

He was bright red, mouth twitching, and clearly boiling with rage.

“I never asked you to stick your nose into my love life!” he yelled.

It wasn’t a denial, and it felt like your stomach dropped from your body in realizing it. You didn’t have time to reel, however, because now Sloane was on her feet too, almost as angry as Five himself was.

“You have to actually HAVE a love life before you can get pissed off about him sticking his nose in it,” she snapped, as she crossed the room to Luther’s side. “And, for what it’s worth, you and she are well matched. You’re both rude, selfish and shitty to the people around you!”

“I knew we shouldn’t have come!” Viktor yelled, leaping to his feet and holding out a hand to Annabelle, abruptly enraged, “you guys are a fucking MESS!”

As his voice reached its angriest pitch, an almost invisible wave shot upwards and outwards through the air with Viktor at its epicenter. It hit the plaster of the ceiling with a deafening crack, making everyone flinch and look up in fear.

When, after a second or two, it became clear the ceiling wasn’t about to fall in. Viktor spoke again.

“Let’s go Annabelle.”

Wordlessly, she took his hand and let herself be marched towards the door.

At that moment, two things happened:

Five blinked into wild-eyed existence beside the version of him in the sweater, briefcase swinging in his grip, and Klaus broke into sarcastic song:

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

The newly appeared Five took one look around the room, confirming to himself that his worst surmises were true, and then looked at you, jaw clenched and eyes wide.

“I didn’t - I thought the briefcase was set to take us back. I was angry, I used the wrong settings! I didn’t mean you to see this!”

The bustle continued behind him as you stood there, burning with consternation at everything you’d just seen and heard.

Luther and Sloane followed Viktor and Annabelle out of the door, ignoring Diego’s calls for them to stay

“Great job, Five.” Diego said, as the front door slammed shut again and Klaus warbled:

“It’s the ha-happiest season of aaall!”

The sweater-clad Five dematerialized, presumably to go sulk in his room.

“Just ignore them,” your Five said, putting himself in between you and the scene as if he might somehow take back what you’d heard by blocking it from your view, “they don’t know what they’re talking about, Luther and Sloane were just fucking with me, I don’t…”

But the words seemed to fail him and, with the line between his brows so deep you could probably stick a penny in there, he looked down at the briefcase and started to move the dials.

When you finally spoke, you didn’t say any of the things he expected you to say:

“When did you find out about nuclear armageddon?”

There was a flinty tone to your voice, and Five didn’t like it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, carefully.

“How did you find out about it?”

“That’s not important, he said, messing with the controls, “and I need silence to make sure I do this correctly.”

“Take me to the future,” you demanded.

“No,” he said, shortly, “you’re going home.”

“Take me to the future!” you shrieked, a slightly crazed tone in your voice, “show me this fucking apocalypse!”

Read Chapter Four >> (coming soon!) I FEED OFF COMMENTS AND REBLOGS YUM YUM YUM

The Second of the Three Spirits or Scrooge's Third Visitor (left) and Ignorance and Want (right) Both by John Leech, 1843 in Dickens's A Christmas Carol, first edition (1843).

Dickens' A Christmas Carol full text available here.

Read it! It's a much better than this, and you can see how many lines I stole verbatim or clumsily referenced.

Dividers used in this series by @bernardsbendystraws (garland) and @strangergraphics (lights)

Taglist: @nevbrooke-555, @fiannee, @abeeabee6969, @chalametabingbong, @lolawassad, @icantpickanamefromonefandom @thebearmage @kaybreezy3000, @starlitflora (comment to be added or removed)

Megalist

Request info + rules

I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See request info + rules for request status and more.

22 notes · View notes