It's Not Dark and Stormy, but We're Still Dark Here

Herb turned toward the door, listening as Five sat down before he turned around one more time, staring at the helpless fool who would undoubtedly fall into a pit of despair just as some of the others had–-those who had known Five’s wife, one whom was not held dearly enough, one who was cast to the side, one whom they all pitied at some point or another.

“Just–” Herb looked to the floor “--be careful, will you? Some of this is tough to watch.”

Five laughed. “How hard can it be?”

Herb pursed his lips, but nodded, laughing nervously as he walked out the door. “Have a good one, Mr. Hargreeves.”

“Yeah,” Five said, sliding the tape into the switchboard, “you too, Herb.”

~*~

The first thing he saw was a child erupt from a blue portal–one that was unmistakably his. You were a cute kid, he noted, your age being about six.

But whatever admiration he held for your chubby cheeks and wide eyes was halted by the pool of blood forming a halo around your head, a rock beside you.

He watched first as you were dragged off of the ground and taken to the hospital. He watched with baited breath as the doctors stitched you up and put you into surgery, he watched as you woke up and bit his tongue as you howled with pain so then he could share in it with you, show you that–in his own way–he was still there, that he loved you, that you were loved, that he wanted you to be home with him so he could hold you in his arms instead of watching a child version of you go through something so terrible.

Something that was very clearly his own damn fault, but he elected to ignore that.

And suddenly, a light poked through the tunnel. Two kind people–people that would take care of you for him–poured through the door of the orphanage you were held in, beaten and bruised.

And they did. He held his tongue and watched with adoring eyes as you got yourself into loads of trouble—his little angel always was a troublemaker. He watched you climb trees and scrape your palms while riding a bike. He watched as you slipped away into the night to take walks and try to allow the sea to swallow you whole.

You always were quite charming.

To his disappointment , however, there was one catch. A boy. A disgusting little boy. Tall with golden curls that framed his face and dimples that carved into his cheeks. He noted that you quite enjoyed making him smile.

You would curl into him—Peter, his name was. You would curl into Peter. Not him. Never him.

A mixture of emotions overcame him at that moment. When Peter tucked you into his side and pressed his lips to the top of your head, cold rage flowed through his veins. When he had the gall to hold your hand and guide you through your everyday life—to pull you into some stupid adventures that all children go on—Five could have sworn he’d never felt more murderous than in that moment.

And then it happened.

He thought he’d never be thankful for your parents dying. But he was. By God, he was. It meant that you were swept away from that boy, away from the threat. It would be far better to have no threats to him, to be able to woo you in the proper way.

Five imagined you both. As soon as he calculated his equations correctly, he’d rush to you. He wouldn’t want to scare you, though—of course he’d never wish to scare you, never again. He would “bump into you” one day when you were out and about.

You would be in a sundress—a yellow one. You had always looked absolutely darling in yellow. Or pink. You were a doll in pink.

It didn’t matter what you wore to Five. All that mattered was that from that day he would court you as he should’ve done the first time around. He would go to your house and meet your parents with two bouquets—one for you and one for your mother. He would talk to your father about sports and politics while you were reading one of those romance novels you so adored.

And he would gain your father’s enthusiastic blessing to take you, his darling little princess, on a date. He would take you to an Italian restaurant. One that would impress you, but nothing too fancy. He would never want to make you shy. He would pull out his card first and pay for both of your meals. He would order you a slice of cake to take home afterward before taking you to a nearby creamery and getting you your favorite flavor of ice cream.

And then he’d ask you what you were reading earlier. You would tell him about it and he would listen with the arter of a devotee on a Goddess’ altar—because that is nothing less than what you are—and then he would gently sweep a stray hair behind your ear before pulling you in and pressing a sweet kiss upon your lips.

He’d drive you home. He’d play Elvis—only his sweet songs—and place his hand over yours oh-so-lightly. And then before you left his car, he’d peck your cheek and tell you that he was picking you up the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that.

And that would be how life was for you. He would take care of everything, he knew. He already was. He was so close yet so far to having you. He was trying a million ways to get to you—a million failed attempts to have you in his arms again. 

But none of those attempts would be worth it if you had fallen into the arms of another man. No matter how innocent it seemed.

A man was a man. A boy was a boy. And you would not be going near either of them if he could help it.

He watched as you were carted away by the proper authorities and he sighed. 

Sometimes he would come across old memories and dive into them. Oh, how beautiful you were. How you smiled and how you laughed and how you were always so kind. To him and to everyone. 

His beautiful, beautiful girl. An angel among demons that crawled beneath her feet–he was a demon that would crawl beneath her feet anyway. A devil cast to the deepest pits of hell searching for that which could bring him salvation, if only for a moment.

Five Hargreeves wanted nothing more than to hold you to his chest, to tuck you into his arms safe and sound and never let you out again. Because his arms were where you belonged–where you still do belong. They were wide open for the ghost of you, gates to a rotting manor that only welcomed its original owner.

You could rip his heart from his chest and he would forgive you in a heartbeat. 

The door creaked open and he quickly locked it behind him. The only other person with a key was Herb, and he wouldn’t dare disturb the owner of the Commission in his incredibly important research.

Even if that research wasn’t important to the company, per se. It was important to him. And if it was important to him then surely the world would fall apart if it wasn’t completed.

I would tear it apart if I couldn’t reach this at the very least, he thought, sitting down in the very same chair he did every day, flipping on the switch that reintroduced him to his sins, to what he needed to do.

Your smiling face greeted him, and for a second–just as always–he smiled back. He turned a dial beneath his right finger, looking back to the dreaded day he lost you. 

November 22, 1963 was a day to behold, that was for sure. It was brighter than usual, not one cloud lingering in the sky and the sun blared down upon the mild Texas landscape.

His gun was aimed for where the president would ride by as you sat beside him, picking at the grass.

“Be careful, Sweetheart,” he said, and you looked up at him for a moment, eyes void. “You’ll ruin your sundress.”

“I think the sundress is the least of our worries today, Five.”

He sighed. “You’re not wrong.”

Five minutes later amidst the chaos that was taking place on the other side of the fence, he took your hand and brought it to his lips before diving through the hole he had ripped in the time-space continuum. 

And then you were gone, stolen from him by the cruel fingers of time.

Five jumped when a knock on the door sounded, his fingers flying to the knife he had stuffed in his pocket at all times.

“Mr. Hargreeves?” Herb called. “Sir?”

Five sighed, dropping his knife before gliding the chair over to the door, unlocking it. “Come in, Herb.”

Herb stepped in through the door before staring at the mess that had become the Infinite Switchboard. Papers were scattered everywhere–some with half-drawn faces, others with numbers and symbols he could only begin to understand. And then there was Five; clean shaven as always, but his eyes held something either dead or dangerously alive.

Either way, he knew there was nothing but trouble to be had with Five Hargreeves.

Nothing but trouble.

“Mr. Hargreeves,” Herb said, watching Five return to his pages, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Herb.”

Herb’s eyes flicked to the screen, to you. You in the yellow sundress. You who had cried in Dot’s arms one too many times to count.

You who had successfully escaped Five Hargreeves and fallen into a new hell.

“Trying to find her, Sir?” Herb said with a chuckle.

Five’s jaw ticked before he turned to the smaller man. “You have something to say, Herb? Something funny?”

“Nothing at all, Sir.” He shrugged, before taking a shaky step away from the man. “Just that you’ve been looking so hard and her files have been with us all along.”

Five’s heart jumped. He dove for Herb, taking him by the lapel of his jacket and pulling him up to eye level. 

“Herb,” he said sweetly. “Old friend. Tell me where the fuck those files are.”

Herb gulped. “We have them all. We watch them on Friday nights. They’re quite entertaining–I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“I want them. I want them all–and whenever a new one comes in, I want that too. I’ll decide if they’re entertaining or not.”

“Of course,” Herb whispered before being thrown to the ground, scampering out of the room as soon as he could.

The candle Allison had placed next to him as a comfort emitted the smell of fresh peaches and suddenly he yearned for spring again. The season where you were happiest prancing around fields and plucking flowers from their place tucked into the earth. Even in your old age you were spry, zipping through meadows whenever you could.

Of course he wouldn’t join you without a price, but you paid it all the same and were glad when he made his appearance next to you. It wasn’t as if you two were near each other all that often, anyway.

More often than not, tears stained your cheeks and his face was flushed red with anger and everything and nothing all at once.

He hated you. You loved him. 

Only when he saw the sea of red leak from your side–all for him–did he realize that maybe you were not one to be hated. You were too kind for that, too much like the flowers that you adored so much.

And so as you grew colder, realizing the monster he was, he touched you more. Held your hand. Whispered in your ear at night. 

He was planning to kiss you upon your landing in 2019. When he brought his hands to his face–no longer wrinkled and calloused with wisdom and long days of labor–he realized that they were meant for yours.

“Y/N,” he whispered, ignoring the faces of his siblings to search for yours. His brows furrowed as panic grasped at his chest. “I–”

He whirled around, his eyes scanning for something. Anything. A body, a heap, a pile of bones. Something.

He took Klaus by the lapel of his jacket. “I had a girl with me. She–did you see a girl? Any of you. Did you see a girl fall through with me?”

His siblings looked at one another, and he had his answer.

So there he sat before the same page that got you two into this mess. Over and over in the margins of the lined mass of numbers he would scratch the line of your jaw into the paper, a gentle swoop but one that reminded him of better days all the same.

The world was safe enough, he decided as he stood up on shaking legs, stuffing his gun deep into his jacket pocket. 

He stared at the lines he drew before taking an empty notebook and putting it in a satchel along with the few bottles spared in the late Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ liquor cabinet before he stared into the abyss.