Archive of Our Own

Like with all things, it starts with Seven.

“So, that’s it,” Viktor’s saying, wrapping up the end of his bit. He’s got his fingers splayed out on his knees. “I’d like it if you called me Viktor from now on,” he adds. “And…that’s everything.”

“Right.” Five nods.

A beat of silence passes between them.

Viktor looks at him, shoulders still strung high with stress. “Is there anything you wanted to say?” Anxiety shines in his gaze. “I…wanted to let you know first, you know.”

“What else is there to say? You’re a man now, Viktor. It’s quite simple to understand. Isn’t it?” Five frowns at his brother. Perhaps he was missing something, but it seemed too easy of a matter for there to be anything to miss in the first place - they had jumped through entire timelines and narrowly avoided total universal annihilation; his sibling cutting his hair and changing his name and becoming someone else (someone that was still him, maybe truly for the first time)...adapting to that was a cakewalk, in comparison to everything else.

Five leans in closer. Softens his gaze. Thinks about his words, weighing them with care, hearing them roll off his tongue in his mind’s eye before he says them. “Viktor.” The name is a wonderful sound. He watches his brother suppress a flinch. “I’m glad.” He swallows. “I appreciate…your trust.”

He tries to say something else, but Viktor sags with relief. That’s all he needed to hear.

“What if it goes badly?” Viktor rises to pace in front of the couch. “I mean - I don’t. I don’t know.” He starts to chew at his nails, which are already incredibly short.

“It’ll be fine.”

“How do you know that?”

Because it doesn’t matter, Five wants to say, whatever happened between all of them as long as they were all in one place and in one piece and alive and together again. It didn’t matter if Seven was Vanya or Viktor or someone else. It didn’t matter, because Viktor was happy, and Viktor was here, and wasn’t that enough? But the will to explain the sentiment dies in his throat, and instead he awkwardly mutters out: “Trust me, I know. Have I ever been wrong?”

“A million times over, yeah.”

“I just have a good feeling about this in particular.”

“Sure. Maybe you’re right.” Viktor gives him a weak smile. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

The worst that can happen turns out to be getting dragged into party-planning shenanigans.

It’s not all that bad. “I just want him to know we’re cool with it,” Luther explains. “Like, we love you anyway, and…it’s cool?”

“You guys didn’t throw me a coming-out party,” Klaus sniffs, inspecting his chipped nails. “I see how it is.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” Luther replies quickly. “That would’ve been the wrong thing to do. I think. Do you want a party too?”

“It’s not that big of a deal. Go fish,” Diego says, fanning out his deck of cards. Ben, from across the table, snakes out a hand to grab from the draw pile.

Five peers at his own cards. “I thought we were playing poker.”

“I told you guys we should have just went with Uno,” Ben sighs. “Also, a party could be fun. Viktor would like it. Probably.” He turns to Five. “Got any…uhh…Hold on.”

“I think I’m done with this game.” He slaps his hand face-down on the table.

“Don’t go! We can play Spoons instead. You liked Spoons, right?”

“Can we focus? Guys?” Luther clears his throat. He looks right at Five. “What do you think?”

“Well, what I think is that this is a stupid idea.”

Luther stares at him with his dumb sad eyes and his even dumber sad face. Jesus, he’s got the kicked-puppy impression nailed down to perfection.

“I don’t see why Viktor would hate it,” Five acquiesces with a sigh. “If I had to say.”

Three days later, Five finds himself balancing precariously on the World’s Shittiest Ladder. It’s amazing how Reginald Hargreeves had so much money to spend on just about anything and everything - mysterious children, an entire robot nanny, his sprawling mansion - except a decent fucking ladder. He blinks onto the ground right before it collapses with a shuddering crash, managing to push it up against the wall at the last minute.

Great. Now the world’s tackiest party decoration hangs in the open living room, a horribly designed white banner that once read “IT’S A BOY!” in giant blue letters; Luther’s boxy scrawl has corrected it to “YOU’RE A BOY, VIKTOR!” in thick black Sharpie. It looks awful.

Viktor comes in through the door just as Five finishes mixing himself a beautiful margarita. Oh, it looks like a painting brought to life. It’s even got a squiggly straw and everything.

“What’s going on?” Viktor points up at the banner.

“Happy birthday.”

“It’s April.”

Five takes a long sip from his margarita. “I know.”

“I don’t understand. Where’s Luther?”

Five gestures vaguely to the upstairs area. “You’re here early,” he comments. “You were only supposed to be here later this evening.”

“At least you’re not day-drinking anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Five pulls his margarita in closer. “This is art.”

“Right.” Viktor pauses as he’s halfway up the stairwell. “Thanks. Um. For everything.”

“Wasn’t my idea.”

“Yeah, well. Still.” And he disappears up the stairs.

At the ungodly hour of night, Five finds himself draped over the living room couch. His mouth feels dry. He leans forward, reaching out for a glass on the table, fingers stretching out - if only he can just…

There’s a dull ache in his head; the buzzing sensation warms his hands, his face. Maybe he’s still sobering up. He feels someone watching him - oh, of course. It’s his brother.

“I meant to ask you something,” Five says, nursing his glass. Though speaking seems a monumental task at the moment, he soldiers on. He lifts his gaze to meet Viktor’s bleary eyes. “How did you know?”

“How did I know… what?”

“That you were. You know.”

“Oh.” A thoughtful look crosses Viktor’s face. He attempts to shrug, but it's more of just a limp rolling of his shoulders. “I had a lot of time to think about it. To think about who I was… besides the whole powers thing? Um.” He smiles sheepishly. “When I kissed Sissy, I just couldn’t help but think: I’m free. And now that I’m free, well. It all just fell into place.”

“Huh.”

“And the first time I wore a suit with suspenders,” Viktor quickly adds, “that was pretty cool. Or when I realized men’s jeans had pockets.”

“And women’s don’t.” Five understands. “You make it sound easy.”

“It wasn’t,” his brother concedes. “But now I know who I am. Or, I’m learning. And it is freeing.”

Something seizes in Five’s chest, then, as he drinks in the sight of Viktor’s growing grin; his brother relaxes, draining the stress from his shoulders, the creased lines of his forehead fading in the dim light. He takes in the soft breathing of his siblings - the scenery returns to his senses, and he realizes it is just Viktor and him who are awake, and Viktor looks the happiest Five’s seen him in a long time. It has been a very long, long time.

“Cheers,” Five says at last, raising his glass. Viktor clinks with an imaginary cup of his own.

As he downs it, Five wonders briefly what it’s like: to be free.

He’s only been in this store for a total of fifteen minutes before he decides he hates it. Five does not like stores, and he does not like malls, because there’s Too Many People and that’s Weird.

Getting used to people being Everywhere has been an experience, perhaps as much as learning about things like money, and how apparently driving in a car with a 13-year-old body is suspicious. If it weren’t for his siblings dragging him along, Five supposes he wouldn’t… necessarily become a shut-in, but he would have picked some place less crowded. Somewhere more quiet.

Alas, here he is, shuffling behind Klaus as his brother rifles through a rack of skirts.

“What do you think of this one, Mein Bruder?” Klaus spreads out a simple, plaid number that is a pleasant mix of light blue and white.

“Why don’t you ask Ben.”

“Benito’s been lost to the Bass Pro Shop pyramid,” Klaus says, wiping an invisible tear. “How tragic!”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m not convinced.” Klaus smiles something wicked. “Maybe it would help if I had a model, no?”

“How about you try it on and I just tell you if it looks good or not?”

“That won’t do, mon frère. I’m the expert here. How could I ever trust your horribly flawed, imperfect judgment?” Klaus presses a hand to his chest. “No, no, that certainly won’t do.”

“Klaus,” Five says evenly. “I am not putting on a skirt for you.” He crosses his arms, trying to show disinterest, but the idea doesn’t even sound like a bad one. He’s partial to it. Maybe. No, definitely not - what is he thinking? It’s not even that funny, and he doesn’t think of humiliating himself in public as a fun pastime.

“I’ll give you ten bucks.”

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

Fifteen dollars richer and a few minutes later, Five finds himself smoothing down the pleated skirt in front of the fitting room mirror. It’s a nice texture. He has to appreciate that. It would be a waste not to.

He gives it a swish.

“Dashing! Absolutely dashing!” Klaus claps his hands together. “Even Ben thinks it looks nice on you.”

“I thought you said Ben was lost in the…”

“Turns out Benny-boy has an excellent sense of direction! Who knew? Now, do a little spin.”

Five spins. He tamps down the odd feeling that sparks in his chest. “Isn’t this enough?”

Klaus is grinning from ear to ear. “No. Spin the other way.”

“Enough.”

“If you like it so much, then it’s yours. I’m done.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“You were smiling!” Klaus laughs. “I didn’t know you could still do that!”

“Very funny.”

Five bunches his hands in the fabric of the skirt. It’s an oddly comforting sensation - he lets his hands drop at that realization, as if burned by it. So what if he likes its feel and look? Is he not allowed? It is well-made. Besides, his wife would have loved it. That’s all.

He hurries to shove his slacks back on, missing whatever Klaus is saying to him. He swallows down the odd pang of sadness at the rumpled skirt on the dressing room floor, but shakes his mind clear of it and opts to think nothing of it. It’s not a thing, after all.

Just - nice clothes that he gets to choose? That’s a luxury. One that gives him pause to think about as he paces the wooden floorboards of his room. Certainly not a pleasantry he was afforded in the apocalypse, where finding something in one piece was nearly impossible, and the dead could hardly object when he seized a thick coat or two. Commission uniform guidelines were much more freeing, he supposes, but as long as Five had a crisp suit to throw on, well. Who was he to complain?

“But you’re free now,” whispers a (suspiciously familiar) voice in his head.

And what does that mean, even? What could that possibly mean - how could he possibly begin to grasp something he’d never known?

Yet, when the skirt makes its way into his closet - brandishing a pale yellow sticky note with Klaus’s shitty chicken scratch on it - he doesn’t complain.

“You cut your hair,” Five observes. He takes a sip of his coffee from across the table, where Viktor is sliding into the opposing seat.

“Yeah.” His brother smiles. Actually smiles. There’s not a hint of hesitance or reluctance or anything apologetic hidden in it. “Do you like it?” he asks.

“I do.”

“That’s good,” Viktor says as Five slides him the other cup of coffee he’s been holding on to. “I think it looks nice.”

“You’re right. It does look nice.”

There’s something that fills Five with the sense of content - but it feels much more powerful than that; the pedestrians pass by on the sidewalk, meandering forward without a care in the world, and a soft wind blows past. He feels like everything was worthwhile. Those forty-five years and two weeks were all worthwhile, if for nothing else just to see his brother happy. Comfortable in his own skin.

“You’re growing yours out?” Viktor asks, which brings him back into the moment.

“A bit. It might be time for a change.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re trying to go for a mullet.”

“God, no.”

“Well, good.” Viktor takes a sip of his own coffee, but sets it down slowly, a pensive look overtaking his face. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“What?”

Viktor gives him a funny look.

His brother leans in closer, which is ridiculous - they’re outside on this cafe’s patio seating, what could either of them possibly say that would demand this much caution? - and murmurs in a low voice, “You’re also…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Transitioning?”

“I know someone, um,” Viktor proceeds before Five can even have time to react. Which he doesn’t, because he’s stunned into an open-mouthed silence.

“What gives you that idea?” Five cuts in.

“You said - you were changing, I don’t know.”

“Not like that.” Oh, Jesus. “No, I didn’t mean that.”

“Okay. Well, um. If you ever, you know. If you want to try something new. I’m here for you,” Viktor says at last, reaching his arm over to clasp Five’s. He lets his brother do that, even though something about the skin-on-skin touch burns, and he attempts to not squirm in his seat under his brother’s searching gaze.

“It’s not for me,” Five reassures him. “It’s too late now, anyway.”

“It’s never too late.” Viktor frowns at him. “You know that, right? It’ll never be too late. You have all the time in the world.”

Five wants to scoff at that. Him? Having time to do anything? The clock ticks on every second of his life - rescue your family before they die, hurry to herd them like stubborn cats, mark down the days of your assassin work, bear the pain of the minutes that ooze by as everything collapses around you. But Five is who he is because of the way he’s navigated around time, dodged it and twisted it and made it into his own plaything. There wasn’t any changing that, then. There is hardly a point in changing this, now. He can’t even wash the blood off his hands - Five is who he is, whether he likes that or not.

He glances down at his drink and back up at Viktor. His brother’s eyes have taken on a pleading look. If it’s too late for Five, that shouldn’t mean anything for his brother, who is still young and spry and can still change - is still changing.

“I suppose so,” Five concedes. The words sound brittle coming from him. He focuses instead on how his brother relaxes with relief.

It has to mean something; knowing Five, the words might never mean anything.

Five stands in the bathroom, holding a pair of hair-trimming shears in one hand and using his other to mark out how short he wants to go.

His hair reaches his shoulders now, if not just slightly below them. It’s too long. Not in a disheveled sort of way - he keeps it neatly brushed, at least.

People are starting to notice it, though. This morning, Luther gestured awkwardly to it and tried to say “it looks nice,” or maybe “it looks great on you,” but ended up with a jumbled mess of “it looks grice on you.” Last week, when Allison was passing through, she’d stared at him for a moment before making some odd attempt to intervene - some kind of “you need to care for yourself more” schpiel, before Five clarified that it was less of a depression chic look and more of something he wanted to try. And fifteen minutes ago, Klaus had declared he needed to paint their nails together because, as he’d said, what was the point of putting “this look” together if he didn’t even have his nails done?

This problem has grown far too big. It was time to kill it.

Five raises the scissors and makes a menacing snip - in the air. He brings his hand closer. Stares at the mirror. At his reflection. Focused on the hair, the hand, the shears.

They clatter in the sink.

Five turns the faucet on to splash water in his face. Nausea roils in his stomach, and his chest tightens, but he can’t understand why; he’s never been afraid of scissors before. What about them could stop him now? It’s just a routine trim.

He picks up the shears and tries again, but only manages to cut at the dead ends before his hand starts shaking too much to be of any use. Is this how Diego feels when he sees needles? Five thinks he understands now.

It’s frustrating, but mostly because he doesn’t know why. He keeps the look anyway. It looks great. It looks nice. It looks…

Hm.

“You wouldn’t know anything about cutting your own hair, would you?” he asks Klaus out of curiosity. Bright blue nail polish coats his fingertips. It sparkles in the light.

“I’ll trim yours, if you want,” Klaus offers with a small frown. “You’re not vibing with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s see what I can do. I’ll work my magic for you.” And Klaus drags him all the way up into his own room, sits him down in front of his dresser, yaks on and on about this and that. Five doesn’t really care. He just wants this over with; he’s embarrassed as is that he has to ask Klaus for help, but maybe Klaus appreciates it, so. Not a total loss.

“You want it back to your usual?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Okaaay.” Klaus lifts the scissors in his hand. “My hands can be a bit shaky. You won’t kill me if this is uneven, right?”

“I might.”

“You wound me!”

Five looks away as Klaus’s hand pulls in closer. Against everything, he jerks away as he hears - no, distinctly fees the scissors snap at his hair.

“Oh? Mi hermano, you can’t be doing that! I could end up cutting your ear instead, and that would be totally no bueno.”

“It was on reflex,” Five explains, feeling the shame crawl up his back.

“Mhmm.” Klaus tries from the other direction, and - well. “That’s some highly trained reflexes you got there. Or…”

“Or what?”

“You don’t have to cut it if you don’t want to,” Klahs says to him. “You know that, right? Like, nobody cares if you do or don’t.”

“I want to.”

“Fivey,” Klaus sighs, “if you really want to, you’d just sit still and let me do it.”

“I’m trying!” Five snaps. That earlier nauseating sensation wells up again.

“Jesus, dude. No need to cry about it. It’s all good.”

“I am not crying, Klaus.”

“You look like you’re about to.”

Five gazes at his reflection in the dresser mirror. His reflection stares back, analytical yet unblinking. He looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes and a general sense of fatigue radiates off him in waves; he deflates with a harsh breath, trying to ignore the pricking discomfort of his appearance, which has more to do with his face (and perhaps how young it is) than the length of hair that cascades down his back.

“I don’t get it,” Five says at last.

“You will.” Klaus gives the seat a spin. It shakes Five from his trance, a little. “You’re just… changing. But no matter what, you’re still Five to us, ‘kay?” Klaus sounds serious. “You’re still our favorite little murder demon,” he adds.

“I am not little.”

“You’re hardly taller than Viktor. I dunno about that one, chief.”

Five swallows. “You’re right,” he says.

“Obviously, Tiny!”

“Not about that. But you’re right. I am changing.” Five takes another pause. It’s one thing to think it inside of his head, and another to say it out loud. Klaus waits patiently for him to finish, which adds to the weight of the situation - Klaus is hardly patient for anything. “…Thank you,” he murmurs softly, the words feeling odd in his mouth.

“Any time.”

Five sits perched on the edge of the rooftop. He traces out the constellations in the sky, making up what he thinks could pass for Orion’s Belt and maybe the Big Dipper, trying to recall what Luther’s taught him.

He came up here to think. He lays down on the concrete, hands running through his hair, pulling at the roots.

What would Delores think if she saw him now? That thought creeps up on him before he can stop it. A pit opens in his stomach. Maybe it’s always been there. Maybe it’s just growing larger. Disgust, probably - “This isn’t who I married,” she might say. “You’re not the person I loved.” But, Five retorts, he hasn’t been for a while. Not since he jumped to Dallas and back. Likely even before then.

Still, he misses his wife. “You look lovely, dear,” she might say, watching him spin in her favorite sundress, the skirt swishing in the air. “You’re beautiful.” His heart thumps.

There was no way to know now.

Five closes his eyes and lets his mind drift. The wind nips at him too coldly to let him really fall asleep, though he could just about sleep anywhere.

He thinks of the Commission. Perhaps they would have let him do anything for being their best, but Five doubts it; it’s more likely that if he’d requested something, anything other than what they’d given him already (a job, a place to stay, an out from the apocalypse) it would have come with a massive price. Still, a pang of regret flows through him. He really could have done anything he liked, and Commission management probably wouldn’t have batted an eye. Asked to be taller, or a sharper shaving razor, or…

He can’t imagine it would have gone well, though. He would have never stayed again long enough to fulfill any new contract with the Commission, not after all the shit he pulled - and a surprise laugh escapes him as he imagines trying to make something out of it. “Thank you for constructing me a new body. Can’t you make it a touch less man-like?”

…Hm.

Five stands, runs inside and down the stairs to his bedroom, and strips his thin jacket on his desk. He studies himself in his mirror - he’s had so much to do with mirrors lately, it’s exhausting.

Five has never quite enjoyed the face that stares back at him. Recently, he’s chalked it up to his newfound youth: a body deplete of the scars that at least proved what he’d gone through was real, an appearance that let his siblings condescend and patronize him like a toddler. Yet, as his face has grown sharper and himself a few inches taller, Five finds it's not quite entirely that. It’s not just the childish look - no, this is something else that runs deeper, has been something else for a while.

Standing here in his loose shirt and pants, with his hair starting to reach his collarbone, and the paint off of Klaus’s (frankly terrible) nail job hardly even chipped, Five almost looks like a girl. In this dim light, he’s certain anyone would mistake him as such.

He blinks. This is not a horrifying realization. Why isn’t this a horrifying realization?

Number Five Hargreeves, fifty-eight years old, time-jumping assassin and death denialist, renowned child soldier, stands here gawking at himself - at…himself. Studying himself like a scientist examining something under a microscope slide, overlooking each curve and bend in the poor light, reveling in the way that the vagueness lets his figure slip into being something indiscernible, something - new.

“Ah,” he says simply as the realization hits him like a freight train. “Hm.” He stumbles backward, catching himself on his desk chair. “Oh,” he breathes. His chest seizes; the wave of emotions crashing through him are so overwhelming he bends forward, clutching at his stomach, groaning with the effort it takes to not vomit on the floor. His head aches terribly.

He imagines Viktor telling him, “I told you so.”

Of course, Number Five Hargreeves has never taken anything lying down, so pretty soon he’s kicked into overdrive mode.

There is no problem he can’t solve.

The issue: the disconnect Five feels with his body has grown into something unmanagable; the dysmorphia of being 13 and having to relive the painful reminder of his massive fuck-ups (time traveling from home, abandoning his family, and screwing up his return) has itself morphed into something unrecognizable - a stark dislike, nay, hatred for his appearance, the boyishness that exudes from him becoming less of an annoyance and more of a thorn in his side.

The solution: Leave his boyhood at the door.

Luckily, there’s a piece of chalk left in his desk that hasn’t seen use in all these years, so Five gets to writing pretty quick. He’s in auto-pilot mode, filling up every inch of his bedroom wall with variables and numbers and extensive equations before he even considers if his solution is possible. This feat would very much so be feasible, if all Five has to do is figure out how to fuck with time enough to physically grow up. Be 30 years old, not 13. Match with the rest of his siblings. He doesn’t even give so much as a second of pause to consider whether or not this plan will even work. If it doesn’t - well, he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it, no? It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts: if Five doesn’t believe something is possible, there’s no point in doing it. Therefore, if he is doing it, dedicating days to painstakingly write out every line of math for this project, then it has to be feasible. It has to be possible. It has to. It just has to.

He backs off, slowly turning around to absorb everything, conjuring a mental image of what he looked like at 30. The memory is hard to drag up. 30 was so long ago. What was he even doing, then? Proposing to his wife, probably. Making a shitty wedding. Shooting a shotgun into the air, for he had nothing to kill with it yet, wasting just one bullet to mark the weight of the moment.

He was but a young man, then, and had stopped trying to maintain his facial hair by that point. Spindly and thin, he felt keeping the beard (though unkempt) made him more of a man - and, as the remembrance of that feeling crosses Five’s mind again, he notices a distinct wrongness that comes with it. Unthinkingly he paws at his face.

What was wrong about being 30? Maybe it was that he had a horrifying figure, with all of his ribs sticking out; perhaps it was that he had stunted his own growth and thus was no taller than his actual 13-year-old self; possibly, it was even the fact that he had already amassed quite a large tally of scars, or potentially even that he wasn’t 30 at all, that he had screwed up his counting of the days somehow and had just declared a random moment to be his birthday.

None of these hit the mark quite right.

He needs - a new perspective.

Five takes to pacing. “I don’t miss being thirteen,” he begins. “Yes, being thirty was a crapshoot - but at least I don’t look like a fucking middle schooler.” So what, then? “I’d be a proper man, again.” Five shakes his head. “A…”

He stops.

“A proper…” Isn’t this what he wants? Isn’t this what he’s been chasing after? The bane of his existence - his current existence - is his shameful appearance! What does he want, then? What do you want, Number Five Hargreeves, he thinks to scream - so he does, letting out a frustrated yell. The chalk in his hand flings out and pings against the window. He shoves the dusty books piled on his desk with force, tips his chair over, and nearly punches a wall before he snaps into self-awareness.

“If you’re going to act childish, then you should stay a child,” someone says. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was his strained memory of Delores’s voice.

“I need your help,” Five announces as he blinks right into Viktor’s apartment. Who uses doors these days, not him, that’s who.

“Give me one second,” Viktor calls back. “You should at least knock next time, before you come over. Or call me. Jesus,” he mutters.

“It’s urgent.”

Viktor turns around from where he’s meandering around his kitchenette, blinking. “Oh. You look…different.”

“How so?”

“I mean… The hair’s new. It looks nice on you, I think.” Viktor’s eyes drift down to his hands.

Klaus’s shitty nail-paint job is starting to chip off. Five shoves his hands into his pockets.

“What’s this about?”

When Viktor’s settled on the couch beside him, Five tells him everything. If there’s one person he can trust, it’s his favorite brother. He has no reason to lie about this, anyway. Viktor is smart enough to give him fresh insight, while his other siblings would probably gawk at him as if he was crazy. That’s it.

“So, let me get this right,” Viktor says. He takes in a small breath, his eyebrows knitted together in…concern, or confusion, perhaps. “You want to be thirty again…because you hate being thirteen…but you don’t like being thirty, because…?” Viktor rubs at his face. “If you can’t figure it out, why don’t you make a list of the things you don’t like about it?”

“There’s a lot of things I like about it.”

“It’s not about what you like. It’s about what’s making you uncomfortable.”

Oh. Well, Five can certainly do that: “I’ll be shorter,” he starts, which makes Viktor smile.

“Shorter than me?”

“Yes.”

“Keep going.”

“I like being tall,” Five confesses. “Taller than you. My leg might be fucked up. I broke it after I misjudged my jumping distance.” He thinks. “My lungs aren’t in the greatest condition. And…”

There’s something else. Something that Five almost can’t bring himself to say. But he does, because Viktor even leans in a bit, eyes softening with a kind patience. It makes Five remember why Viktor’s his favorite. Because he trusts Viktor. Not to say he doesn’t trust the rest of his family - but there was a reason why Viktor and Five always gravitated towards each other as children, and it certainly wasn’t because Five just liked listening to his violin.

“I had a realization,” Five says, testing the waters. There’s a tightness in his chest. Its presence, now, is almost a familiar comfort.

“Was it related to…”

“Not at all,” Five replies easily, shaking his head. He swallows. “...Perhaps.”

It was like a dream, almost, the way the moonlight had spilled just enough of itself through his window to cast a near-ethereal glow on his figure, not quite reaching all of his face; he cards his fingers through his hair, reliving the memory. “I have no great affection for my appearance,” he explains. “There’s not really anything convenient or nice about looking like a ragged schoolboy. I miss being fifty-eight, you know. I miss being thirty. Somewhat.” His voice wavers, but on the cusp of having his epiphany actualized - to say it, put it into words, makes it real - lends him a surge of strength. He looks Viktor right in the eye. “I don’t miss my body.”

They fall into silence. It’s almost deafening.

Viktor’s face twitches as his eyes light up in comprehension. He understands - he understands.

For a moment, he says nothing. But then: “You would have to grow your hair out again.” Viktor reaches out with his hand. Five takes his own out of his pocket and places it, gently, in his brother’s palm, all the shame and embarrassment and fear that he hadn’t even been aware he was holding onto evaporating in that same second. “You could get Klaus to redo your nails.”

“But I’d be a man again.”

“You would,” Viktor murmurs. “It would only be for a little while. You know that, right? Even if you did - even if you wanted to do the whole…” He makes a vague gesture in the air. “Poof. And you wouldn’t have to stay that way, if you didn’t, um.”

Five tilts his head.

“That’s how I…what do you think I go to the clinic every week for?”

“It’s none of my business, frankly.”

“It’s my T shots,” Viktor supplies, then blinks. “I guess I haven’t told anyone yet. They take a while to actually do something, but, still.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. It wouldn’t be right away, but that’s always an option.”

Huh.

An option.

“Is that what you want?” Viktor asks him, and then, Five leans into the couch in stunned silence, waves his hands frantically in front of himself. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that right now—”

“Yes,” Five says - almost shouts, by the way Viktor recoils and reaches up for his ears. There’s a certain hunger in his voice. Five has never gotten to make a real choice about anything, really. He didn’t choose to abandon his family, didn’t choose to be the Handler’s pet, didn’t choose to jump them smack-dab into the worst time period ever, didn’t choose to fuck up his time-traveling so badly he got stuck in the most horrific body possible. He didn’t choose to be a boy who had to grow up too quickly, alone.

He didn’t choose to be a man.

But he can choose this.

“I want this,” Five declares with full certainty, unlike anything he’s ever felt. “I want this.” It feels good to say. “I really, really want this.”

“Hard part’s over, then.” Viktor grins. “You’re practically halfway there already. It’s nice, isn’t it? Knowing the real you.”

“It is.”

“Hm?” Viktor glances over and then stiffens in shock. Or maybe just sits up. Five goes to rub at his stinging eyes to clear his vision. “I did a lot of crying, too, don’t worry…”

“Crying?” Five takes in a ragged breath. He touches his face, wipes at his cheeks. “Oh, I suppose I might be.” His even voice fails to waver even slightly, which makes the sudden surge of an oncoming sob more startling. He attempts to choke it back down, but it overpowers him - not because he is weak, but because he has no more reason to keep swallowing his tears, especially in the comfort of his brother’s apartment, right here in the hidden space of his brother’s embrace.

In the quiet stillness of the world, for just one night, it is Five and his wife.

They have spent years, nay, decades like this; everything is just Five and his wife against the world. So he feels he owes her this moment of honesty, if nothing else.

“This is what I want,” he says. But he is open about it. He does not force his shoulders back to exude his killer’s confidence. Not in the presence of his wife. Never in the presence of his wife dared he to raise his voice or narrow his eyes. He affords her the kindness she affords him. “I’m sorry I lied to you.” The words are foreign in his mouth. They feel funny to string together. “But I’m not the man you married anymore.”

Delores gazes at him with her eyes full of sweetness. She laces their fingers together. “I always knew,” she murmurs. “Deep down, I always knew who you were.”

“Do you still love me?” Five’s voice sounds unimaginably small.

“Of course I still love you.”

He rises from his bed. Five closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the world has melted away, but he is not surprised. He peers down at himself to take in his surroundings - he is wearing Delores’s favorite sundress, but the fabric is no longer ragged and torn, and they stand in the vast openness at the end of the world. For once, the sky is clear. The ash is gone.

“You look beautiful,” she says.

It was always her favorite dress.

Ben comes knocking on Five’s door.

“In a second,” Five calls.

Ben opens the door anyway. “Looking good, sis,” he comments, and then makes a funny smile. “It feels so nice to say that. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know dinner’s ready.”

Five smooths down her hair into place and gives her ponytail one final good tug. “Alright. I’m ready.”

They walk down the stairs together. “What’s the special occasion?”

“Hm?”

“You’re tangible.”

“Oh,” Ben says, and then laughs awkwardly. “Ah…Klaus likes practicing when he can. You know.”

Five frowns at that. “Klaus never likes practicing for anything.” She hurries to peer over the banister, and Ben calls out for her, frantically, but -

Five blinks right into the downstairs living room.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she asks, incredulous, arms crossed together.

“I knew we never should have sent Ben,” grumbles Diego, holding a mess of balloons together in his fists. “That was just gonna be suspicious from the get-go.”

“Surprise?” smiles Luther. “I know you hate parties, but. Um.” He motions for Diego, who shoves balloons in Five’s face. “Surprise!”

Five looks up.

Hanging on the wall is a giant banner. It reads, in Luther’s ever familiar boxy, cramped scrawl, “YOU’RE A GIRL, FIVE!” This time, a smiley face is horribly rendered on the side. Oh, there’s even an extra exclamation mark there.

“This is awful,” Five remarks, but she can’t fight the smile forming on her face.

“Like I said,” says Klaus as he waltzes into the room, attracted by the attention. “You guys never threw me a coming-out party, and honestly, I should be next. The things I do for this family. Looking fresh, mi hermana, by the way. That blouse is so adorbs on you.”

“Don’t say that. It makes you sound stupid.”

“Do you want a coming-out party?” asks Luther, who one-hundred percent means it. Diego groans behind him. “I mean, we can actually do that for you.”

“I’ll throw myself one. But you guys are totally invited.” Klaus gives a double thumbs up.

Five rolls her eyes heavenward. When she’d amassed the courage to call that family meeting (at Viktor’s suggestion, despite Five’s growing hatred of family meetings), she’d felt like a raw exposed nerve. How did you tell your family, “I’m not who you think I am?” How do you bare yourself to their unrelenting gaze? Yet, the words had leapt out of Five’s mouth before she could stop herself, and the sinking regret that threatened to settle in never came. She remembers there’d been quiet tears. Of course it was never going to be easy, but Five wasn’t one to not do things because they were difficult, not one to avoid even the most monstrous hazards standing in her way.

So she jumped that wall of faith. And look where it got her now.

“You will never believe what I found at Party City,” Allison singsongs as Five blinks into the kitchen. A girl needs her coffee, after all.

“If it has glitter, I’m not wearing it.”

It’s a party hat.

Oh, of course Five is wearing that. She’s not about to be shown up at her own coming out party by not wearing a stupid party hat. She even lets Allison slip the string under her chin and fix it atop her head.

“There,” Allison says. “You look so cute.”

“I’m nearly sixty, but thank you.”

“So?” Allison shakes her head. “We even got you a cake, and by we, I mean me. I fought so hard to make them put your name on it, so technically it’s you and Viktor’s cake.”

“Wonderful.”

“Cheer up. It’s chocolate.”

Well, Five would never say no to that.

That evening, they all crowd around the dinner table as someone lights up two candles on her - her and Viktor’s cake. Viktor sits right next to her, of course, wearing an equally stupid-looking party hat; the icing sloppily reads “HAPPY 5TH COMING OUT VICTOR” which is so ridiculous that it makes Five want to cry laughing. She does, a little bit. Just a little bit. The chocolate is amazing.

“Allison did say she got my name on it somehow,” Five muses. She takes another bite from her messy slice.

“I think if I had to come out five times, I would cry,” Viktor snorts.

Klaus reaches over to cut himself more cake. “At least you didn’t come out to…how many people live here, again? Like, thirty million?”

“Three hundred.”

“At once?” Viktor gapes. “I remember that. Wasn’t it on some kinda talkshow?”

“Dad was so pissed.” Diego claps Klaus on the back. “I don’t know if that was the bravest or dumbest shit you ever did, but damn, dude.”

“That was such a PR nightmare, I don’t even want to think about it.” Allison chews on her own fork. “Luther came to my room to cry out of frustration.”

“I did not,” says Luther, miffed. “But it wasn’t a smart thing to do.”

Five rolls her eyes. Her family’s shenanigans never fail to disappoint, she supposes, and smiles into her cake slice.

It’s a good feeling.

“Guys,” Ben says, hurrying into the kitchen. “I think we’re out of ice.” He looks between Five and Viktor. “Uh, I brought champagne?”

When everyone’s glasses are filled and refilled, Five takes a spoon and clinks it on her own. She clears her throat.

They’re all looking at her.

“This was a stupid party,” she says. “I cannot emphasize enough how much I was loathe to the idea.”

“But we even got you colored balloons,” shouts Diego.

“And you even got me colored balloons,” Five repeats. “Um,” she falters, and takes a swig from her glass. “I appreciate it. And…”

She raises her glass.

To all the years of misery, she thinks. To all the years of sifting through corpses and cockroaches and debris, to all the years of killing her marks and leaving bloodied footprints in the dirt, to the two weeks of going to hell and back just for the world to not end in flames, for all the shitty childhoods they each had, to all the choices they never got to make.

To the future they get to write, together.

To the freedom Five gets to have.

After everything.

“What was I going to say?” Five laughs, and it startles her, and it clearly startles everyone else too. “I forgot.” She looks at Viktor, who shrugs. “It probably wasn’t important, anyway.”

Klaus cheers first, hands clapping vigorously, and then everyone promptly decides it’s Time To Start Yelling, Noise Complaints Be Damned. To their credit, they do own the whole block. So.

Five downs her champagne.

“You love us, you old sap,” Viktor says, their shoulders bumping together.

“I can’t deny that.”

It was all worth it, in the end.

“I don’t know if I’m ever going to get used to this,” Viktor’s saying as he pulls himself into the passenger seat. “But it saves my gas money, so. Uh, thanks.”

“No problem.” Five turns the radio knob. The quiet jazz fades into silence. “How was your rehearsal?”

Rehearsal was fine. Viktor’s seeing someone, the light is green, Five, please don’t start making death threats, he hasn’t even said anything about this girl yet. She’s been to his apartment already. They’re going steady. The new cafe down the street finally opened, would Five like to come over to get some, yes she would. She would like it very much.

“Your hair’s growing out again.”

“I know.” She flicks her turn signal. “I’m doing it on purpose.”

“Long hair isn’t as nice as you think it is.”

“It’s okay. Unclogging the shower drain isn’t that big of a deal.”

“Gross.”

Viktor glances out the window. “I still wonder how you managed to do it.”

“Do what?” Oh, that’s a red light. Did Five just run a red light? She hopes not, but doesn’t care either way.

“Be thirty, again. Like, I know it’s a lot of math stuff, but. I mean, it’s cool.”

“Well, it took me several months.”

“I remember,” Viktor smiles. “You filled your room from top to bottom. Literally. And then Luther started buying you chalkboards?”

“It was something like that.”

“You know,” Viktor sighs. “I think it means a lot to him. That you’re happy. That I’m happy. Because…” He searches for his words. But Five knows what she means. She’s on the same wavelength.

“He’s readjusting,” Five supplies.

“He’s readjusting! Yeah. Kind of.”

“He offered to help me.” Five goes to flick her turn signal, again. Cruises down the street rather nicely. Splashes through a big puddle that’s formed on the side of the road. “I mean, he was…he took to it pretty quickly.”

“Oh? Did he ever get back to his NASA contact, or…”

“Luther’s not going anywhere any time soon, but yes, he did. I might have provided some…assistance.”

“Please don’t tell me you killed anybody.”

“I don’t do that anymore. I’m retired.” Five pulls in to park at their stop. “But I told him, you know, we’ll be here. And he deserves to do something he actually cares about.”

Five kills the engine.

“I told him,” she says. Viktor watches her carefully. “I said, I’ll do anything to go back and - and make sure… But I couldn’t. I said this - to Ben, too, and…”

“You’ve done enough.”

“You think so?” Five whispers.

“I do think so,” Viktor murmurs in reply. “I think we’ve all done a little too much. Some more than others. I mean, Klaus had a cult. And Diego tried to stop the president from dying.”

“And you ended the world twice.”

“I did, didn’t I. Hm.”

Before Five can say anything else, Viktor pushes his door open and spills out into the sidewalk, so she hurries to get out of the car too.

“We all did some crazy shit,” Viktor declares loudly into the universe. A few people turn their heads to stare. “Sorry. I just felt like saying that.”

“You’re right.” Five pats him on the back. “We did some crazy shit!” she shouts.

A pigeon coos in response.

“We are the Crazy Shit Family.”

“Craziest shit that’s ever crazed. Maybe ever.”

“Yeah.”

“Yep.”

The clinic lights buzz as they cast their dim glow on their faces. Five thinks about how loud it must be in Viktor’s ears, but it shines the light directly into his eyes, and Five likes it when he smiles like he’s right at home. “Okay. Thanks for, um, you know,” he says.

“You exploded the world once or twice. What’s a needle here and there?”

“It’s the little things.”

“I guess so.”

Viktor opens the door for her. “Ladies first,” he says, and - well, he’s right. It is the little things that gives Five pause, and the little things that fuel the feeling of contentment in her chest. “I told you so, didn’t I?”

Five turns to look at him. “How did you know?”

Viktor shrugs. “I know my sister. I’m part of the Crazy Shit Family, remember?”

“Yeah.” The light inside is nearly blinding. “I do.”

Ben pokes his head through the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Five resteadies her grip on the sledgehammer and thwacks it against the painting again. Wood and canvas splinters along the ground. “Do you need something?”

“I’ll just watch you from here. Is that where your portrait-” Thwack! “Where your-” Another clean smash! “Ah.”

Five takes her lighter out of her pocket. “Do you think this needs gasoline?”

“Woah, woah! Don’t burn that. Here. Let me take a swing?”

“Is that even something you can do?”

“Let me try.”

Five passes it off to Ben, and to his credit, it doesn’t immediately slip through his ghostly hands.

Ben gives it a good swing. Or two. Or three.

“I think we’re going to need more sledgehammers,” he says, but the painting is so fractured it doesn’t even matter anymore.

“Give me the last one.”

Five looks down at her stupid boyish face, her mistake immortalized forever in crude oil paint.

“Luther came by to remind you about taking your pills today,” Ben says. “And that he’ll go with you when you need to refill your prescription.”

“You realize how many sticky notes he’s left in the bathroom mirror?”

“I know. But it’s important to him. And he’s trying to make up for lost time, I guess.”

“Right. He doesn’t need to do that.” Five raises the sledgehammer above her shoulder and brings it down so hard she stumbles forward a bit. The painting’s face fractures down the middle. Perfect.

“Wasn’t there a better way to have done this?” Ben rises to assess the damage. He takes in the sight of the painting’s remains spilling across the courtyard. “Destroyed it, I mean. And now you have to clean this up.”

“It was worth it.”

“Sure.”

“I’m thinking we should put something up in its place. Maybe a family portrait.” Five shakes her head. “No, that was a joke.”

“You couldn’t stand still enough to wait for one.”

“That’s not true.”

“Five,” Ben says. “You can’t even stand still right now.”

Five stops bouncing on her heels. “Yes I can.”

She turns to take in the scene of absolute destruction. There are wooden splinters all over the ground. The painting was nice in quality, at least, if nothing else.

“You think I could have auctioned that?”

“That would be weird,” Ben snorts. “I would feel weird having my sister’s…father’s…weird punishment thing in a museum somewhere.”

“Hm. Yeah.”

“Please don’t go around burning things willy-nilly,” Ben adds as he meanders back towards the house. “You wouldn’t want to inhale something dangerous.”

“Sure. I only inhale the smell of plastic for fun.”

Ben moves to say something else, but then rolls his eyes. “I’ll see you at dinner. Please come. I’m trying a new recipe.” And he ends the conversation by walking through a wall, what a show-off.

Five picks up one of the smashed pieces of her old face.

She turns it over in her hand.

Enough of this, she thinks. It’s time to make a shitty attempt to clean up her mess. But before she does, she throws the piece as hard as she can, right into the strong gust of wind that has her hair whipping into her face.

It doesn’t go far, but it lands on the road and is promptly squeezed to bits by a car tire, so. Worth it.

Five wakes up at six-thirty sharp, usually, but there’s no reason to get up so early on a Sunday like today. She meanders into the bathroom, pulling off Luther’s old sticky notes, and blinks into the kitchen.

Klaus and Diego are playing an intense match of Uno, while Ben mediates as their referee; Viktor is brewing a pot of coffee by the counter, and waves at Five - his peach fuzz is growing in now, which makes Five chuckle; Allison’s keys jingle by the door.

Luther spots her first. His arms are full of mail. “Good morning,” he says.

“Morning.”

Five slinks over to guard the coffee machine like a hawk.

“Thanks, by the way,” she calls over to him. It makes Luther pause to turn and look at her curiously.

“What for?”

“You know.”

“She means thanks for caring,” says Viktor, butting in unnecessarily. He is not needed here.

Five rolls her eyes.

“For the record,” she begins, and Viktor is grinning stupidly at her, “I am fifty-nine years old. Nearly sixty. I may be your elder, but I am not senile, Luther. I know not to forget my estradiol.”

“...Sorry?” Poor Luther. He has a kicked-puppy expression.

“It’s about the intent,” Viktor translates. Since when has her little brother become the Official Five Feelings Communicator? Since never, Five writes off. Because she’s not having Sappy Feelings. She’s just…clarifying things. “You know she’s just trying to say she appreciates the thought.”

“Cheer up,” Allison says, popping up behind Luther. “Old people are bad at talking about how they feel. She means well.”

“I’m right here,” Five snaps, but there’s no real heat to it. She sighs. Is that coffee ready? Looks like it. Viktor slides her over a mug - her favorite one, actually. A stupid surprise present from Klaus/Ben/their combined braincells; Ben saw it first, and Klaus actually had to buy it, but nonetheless. It’s a nice mug. Has the Rutherford model on it and everything.

Five manages to pick up on the other conversation from across the open space. Has the mansion always been this big?

“Was that really worth it?” groans a baffled Diego, who adds four cards to his hand. Poor bastard. Went from two to six real fast.

“I live to take chances, mi amigo,” asserts Klaus. He points a finger all up in Diego’s face. “Ha! Uno!” His gaze swivels to meet Five’s, and when he sees her watching them from afar, he beams.

Five takes a sip of her freshly brewed coffee and promptly burns her tongue on it.

It’s good, anyway.

“In the end,” Five hums, swinging her legs off the edge of the roof. “Eventually, it all worked itself out.”

“Is that how it goes?” Luther is staring really hard through their shared pair of binoculars. To be fair, they are somewhat shitty binoculars, but still.

“You said to make up a story. You didn’t say it had to be good.”

“That’s true.”

“So anyway,” Five says, watching the sky for any stray meteorites that might graze by. “Even though the girl has lost everything, in the end, it’s all…”

“I don’t follow. I thought she died halfway through.”

“Did I say that?”

“You might have.”

“Well, now I’m out of ideas. It’s your turn.”

“Okay,” Luther nods. He passes Five the binoculars. The stars snap into focus. “I’ve been working on this for a while. So, there’s the scorpion and the frog, and they’re trying to cross to the other side, right?” Five nods. “And the frog doesn’t want to get stung. So they’re riding across the river. And the frog asks, ‘What’s on the other side of the river?’ because he’s trying to see if it’s worth it or not.”

“And what does the scorpion say?”

“Well, the scorpion says…um. The scorpion says, ‘who knows what’s on the other side of anything?’ It’s supposed to be reflective. Or something like that.”

“What’s the point of it?”

“The point of what?”

“Your story.” Five sets the binoculars aside. No meteorites or comets or even a single shooting star tonight. That’s alright. “What happens next, Luther?”

“Nothing,” Luther says. “I haven’t thought that far ahead, yet.”

“Well, keep thinking.”

They lapse into silence.

Eventually, Luther stands up and turns to go back inside. The night breeze is chilly enough as is. They didn’t come here to gawk at nothing, Five supposes, although she’s certain Luther could look at the starry sky forever and never get tired of it.

“Wait.” Five rises to her feet. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?”

“Your story.”

“Oh.” Luther waits for her to go on.

“The frog,” she says abruptly. “Uh. The frog says, ‘you’re right.’ And then keeps swimming to the other end. And they get there, no stinger, no nothing. The scorpion doesn’t sting the frog, I mean.”

“Okay.” Luther blinks. “And what’s on the other side?”

“It’s nothing,” Five replies. The air tastes sweet. “There’s nothing. It’s just grass as far as the eye can see. And the scorpion, of course. It’s really nothing.”

“...That’s one way to end it,” Luther chuckles. He’s pivoting on his foot when Five clasps his shoulder, and then he really stops. Looks at her. Looks right into her.

“There’s nothing,” Five repeats. “The frog - the frog can do whatever it likes, now that the story is over.”

“Was it worth it? Even though you had no idea what was on the other side?”

Five closes her eyes. Breathes in and out. Feels the cosmic dust in the twilight rain down on her, swirl inside of Luther, and everything is still.

She senses the unforgiving, humid heat of sun trapped within the ash, senses the merciless beating of the rays in the heart of Dallas, thinks of the stifling thunderstorms that plague them here. Thinks of the blood pooling under her shoes. Thinks of the knife in the table. Thinks of the way Viktor easily slides into his stride by his brothers, thinks of the way Five slots back into her own family, right where she’s supposed to be - thirteen and sixty and thirty all at once.

When she opens herself back up to the world, Luther remains waiting for her response.

“It was.”

“Well, I’m glad.”

The moon is rising. No. The moon has risen. Again, and again, and again.

“So am I,” says Five. The other side of the river is grass and hill and knolls as far as the eye can see, and Number Five Hargreeves soaks it in, folding her uniform and slipping into that beautiful sundress and burning old canvases and throwing splinters and rocks and what it means to be a man into the waters below. “It was always worth it, you know.”