#apocaverse

Unlike Delores, you were human. Breathing. Alive, somehow. And you had thoughts and feelings that weren’t always connected to his and – and it was weird. It was home.

You didn’t question his friendship with Delores. Five had seen the half-burned stuffed frog in your wagon, so you wouldn’t have had anything to hold over him anyway. He knew that you knew that he still went to the department store in the middle of the night. And, shit, deep down Five also knew that Delores was, in the end, just a hunk of plastic with eyes. But after a year and a half of having nobody else, she had become something of a comfort. And a confidant. Burdening you with his issues was not an option, so when things became a little shittier than usual, he would slip out from underneath his blanket, make sure you weren’t having a nightmare, and head downtown to voice his thoughts aloud.

Over time, though, he learned that you were willing to listen. You listened, and you were always kind about it even if you didn’t always understand. His nightly visits decreased. And it was okay for a while.

But then Five began to struggle with a new issue – one that was a little different than the usual mess of stress and anxiety – and one night, he finds himself looking down at Delores again because talking to you about it is definitely off the table.

Unfortunately, Delores’s kindness is different from yours.

Well, here we are. Again.

“I’m just here to think,” he snaps, combing a grubby hand through his tangled mess of hair. The lantern beside him glows weakly as he plops down onto a slab of concrete. “Mind your business.”

Your business is everyone’s business here, Five. And to put my own two cents in, I think that you’re scared of your own feelings.

Blood travels to Five’s cheeks, unwarranted, as he narrows his eyes at Delores. “For the last time, that’s not what this is about. It’s – Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get over it. This isn’t a life-or-death issue.”

Then why have you been ranting about it like it is?

“I’m not.”

Ha! Rich.

He grits his teeth. She stares back at him, unperturbed. Bastard.

You know, maybe you’ll feel better if you say it out loud. Air it out. Test to see if it’s real.

“I’m not doing that.”

Do it.

No.

Say it.

No.

For god’s sake, Number Five, take a goddamn look at yourself –

“Fine!” Five hisses, though it feels more like an explosion. He throws his hands up. “I like [Y/n], alright? We’re the last people on this goddamn planet and I like them, and I shouldn’t care this much but I do. Happy?”

Delores pauses. Five looks away.

Very.

Ugh.

Did it feel real?

He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms, and doesn’t answer. The smile on Delores’s face seems a little smug, and it makes him want to hurl. He shouldn’t have said it out loud. Relieve some of the pressure and everything starts to boil over …

Breathing in deeply, Five forces his shoulders to relax. He bids a soft goodbye to Delores, then heads back to camp.

—

A week later, Five’s visit comes back to bite him in the worst way possible.

You’ve been having a hard time starting the fire for tonight, so he finishes splitting the evening rations to help you out with the bow drill. As he does so, you watch in silence, both of you waiting patiently for the smoke and dust.

“Do you think we have enough wood?” you eventually ask.  

“It’s enough,” he murmurs, only half paying attention. After a while, a few chalky wisps of smoke begin to rise from the charring wood. He leans in to blow the ember carefully once it forms, then puts it into the tinder and coaxes out a flame. “Get the kindling?”

You oblige, and within a few minutes, a healthy fire starts to dance atop the wood, scorching his face and fingers with heat. Five stares intently at the oranges and yellows for a moment, lips pressed together, intrigued in a tired sort of way. Warmth. Then he backs off and grabs a portion of crumbled up crackers, handing it to you.

You spread the cloth over your knees. “Now all we need is some jam.”

“What kind?”

A soft hum escapes your throat. You contemplate unhurriedly, dabbing up some stray crumbs with a finger. “Blackberry,” you reply after a few moments. “Or strawberry. The kind that’s sort of chunky.”

It’s been a long time since he’s tasted either of those things. The simple thought of whole crackers spread with fresh jam, sweet and dark and sticky, is a luxury in and of itself. Five tries not to think about it too much, munching on his third fragment of stale cracker. It makes his mouth dry. “Hm,” he says, picking up the canteen for a few drops of water.

The fire pops. A few sparks fly out into the air and die just as quickly. You finish your supper and wipe your mouth, stretching your legs out in front of you as you sigh.

Five tilts his head at you. “What?”

“What?” you parrot back, though he sees the way your fingers fidget.

“You have something to say.”

Your facial expression shifts just the smallest bit. “How can you tell?”

(Simple – because he knows you. He knows your ticks; knows how you tick. He knows your smiles and all the subtle ways that your voice rises and falls. He’s memorized you because he fears forgetting, and it’s a problem.)

“Kind of hard not to,” Five replies.

“Oh.” You chew the inside of your cheek, still seeming unsure. “Well, um … I just wanted to talk to you about something. And please don’t be mad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Um. A couple nights ago, I had a bad dream.”

“I know.”

“Not the one you woke me up from. A different one,” you mutter. “The night after we found the pillows.”

“Oh,” Five says.

“Yeah.” You look down at your hands. They’re dusty and rough, littered with small scars from climbing and falling and holding. “I … um, that night, I woke up and you weren’t there. And I sort of panicked, and went looking –”

The blood drains from Five’s face.

“I went looking for you, and I found you. Talking to her.” You glance at him for a split second. “About me.”

Oh, fuck.

Five stares at you as you fiddle with the scrap of cloth on your lap. You know. You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to ever know, and now you do.

“Five?” Your voice is curious and small.

His voice is raspy. “How much did you hear?”

“Almost everything.” You grab the cuff of his coat sleeve as he attempts to stand up. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I really didn’t mean to, but –”

“It’s not your fault. Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies tersely. “We need more firewood, anyway.”

“We have enough,” you say, though you relinquish your hold when he tugs a little harder away from you. You sound hurt. “Five, it’s okay to feel like that.”

“It’s not. It makes things more complicated.”

“How?” Standing up, your brow furrows. “I like you too, Five. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

His chest tightens. “That just makes it worse.”

“I like you,” you repeat. Your hand moves down to take his gently. “A lot. And it’s okay.”

(Did it feel real?)

Five meets your gaze solidly despite not quite wishing to, a familiar sense of guilt washing over him when you squeeze his hand.

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t met you. Then he would’ve gotten what he deserved for his recklessness – nothing – with nothing to concern himself with other than equations and survival and time. That, he’s fairly sure, would have been easier to manage. He hadn’t been taught to care for someone else. Not like this, at least.

But you. You. Five swallows the lump in his throat.

“I might have to leave you behind,” he murmurs, more hoarsely than he’d like to admit. The words burn like ice on the roof of his mouth. “One day.”

You don’t reply for a few seconds.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, you step a little closer. “But not tonight," you say. "Right?”

For shit’s sake, you’re so optimistic. Five chuckles dryly, hand still engulfed in yours, blinking away the vague stinging in his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then I forgive you. If you feel like you need it.” With a mild exhale, you smile at him. Your eyes are glossy. “So can we sit back down? I like doing that.”

He quietly agrees.

So you bring him back down to sit before the fire, closer to him than before. No more words are left to be said. A heavy silence settles in their place, neither good nor bad, and almost comfortable. For the first time in a long time, Five tries not to think.

As if snapped out of a trance, you shake your head quickly. “No. I’m fine, I just –” you jerk your wagon forward again – “I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Let’s go.”

Eyes narrowing, Five quickly catches up and grabs your shoulder. You don’t shake him off. “Hey. If you need a break, we can take one right now and still get there before sunrise.”

You shake your head again. “No,” you insist, “I can keep going until –”

“No, you can’t. Cut the crap,” he retorts. You have a habit of sugarcoating your complaints – something he learned the hard way a few days after meeting you – and he isn’t having any of that today. “Look, take a nap or something and I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go. Deal?”

You grow quiet. Then, finally meeting his eyes, you sigh and nod. “Deal. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me.”

“Then I take it back,” you reply dryly. Five rolls his eyes.

Your shoulder slips out from under his hand as you retrieve a tattered blanket and spare jacket from your wagon, then begin clearing out a space on the ground to lay down on. There’s nothing very meticulous about your work; over time, Five has learned that you can fall asleep quickly and nearly anywhere – convenient for the post-apocalyptic life. It’s like your body takes any chance it can to escape this hell.

Soon enough, you’re satisfied with the arrangement and lie down, hands tucked behind your head. There’s a chunk of space left on one side and Five is surprised when you say his name, reaching down to pat the vacant spot.

“You can sit,” you say, voice soft. The sun is now gone, leaving the darkening sky a chalky, brownish gray that deepens the shadows on your face. (Soon he won’t be able to read your eyes.)

Five obliges silently and sits at the edge next to your legs. Only then does the fatigue from a day’s worth of walking hit him, his sore feet suddenly relieved of work. Neither of you had really taken a break since this afternoon, too focused on finding another place with food and water. It makes him wonder how tired you actually are.

“[Y/n] –” he starts, but closes his mouth when he glances down and sees that your eyes are closed. When he listens, he hears the slowness of your breaths. Yeah, you’ve passed out already. That’s good.

Crossing his legs, Five takes a small sip of water from his canteen while he watches you sleep. Something about this moment, sitting so close to you for no discernable reason other than the fact that you had requested it, fills him with a strange sense of peace. A sense of normalcy.

It’s ridiculous, but it’s also not. You’re the most normal person he’s ever met – no powers, no special talents. Just an ordinary person who didn’t die along with literally everything else on the planet.

He had found that oddly comforting.

He wonders what it would have been like if your aunt hadn’t happened to have powers. You definitely wouldn’t have survived, and he would have landed in the apocalypse completely and utterly alone – nobody to tell him what had happened, nobody to scavenge and travel with. Nobody to talk to. Despite never being very social, Five knows that the solitude would have messed with his head. Running into you was the one good thing that came out of this hellhole.

Out of the blue, he notices how cool the air has gotten. As quietly as he can, Five stands up and goes over to his wagon, taking out his own blanket. He unfurls it carefully, then slinks back over to where you’re dozing. You’re a bit of a light sleeper, so he takes extra care not to be too hasty as he lays the blanket over you, pulling it up to your shoulders.

Suddenly, you shift. Five freezes as you curl up, burrowing under his blanket as you turn onto your side. Only when your breaths even out does he relax.

What the hell am I doing, he asks himself as he sits back. You could take care of yourself. He didn’t have to do that.

One of your hands peeks out past the edge of the blanket. After a moment of hesitation, Five reaches over and grasps your fingers gently, nudging them back under the cover. Your hand is very warm. He pushes that thought away much more quickly.

He’s not sure what he’ll do once he figures out how to get back. Logically, the best thing to do is to leave you here. Bringing you back to a time before you’re born, or even worse, when you have been born already, could complicate the timeline even more, so it’d be best to go alone.

But then you’d be alone.

Five continues to stare at you, trying to make out the minute details of your face in the darkness. He’s gotten attached to you. And sure, that’s fine for now – maybe even good – but farther down the line, it’s going to bite him in the ass. He’d never forgive himself for leaving you to die.

You probably would. You’re that much of an optimist.

“… Five? Should we go now?”

Your voice, hoarse and sleepy, causes him to shake his head and clear it enough to respond. “Ten more minutes. Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, patting your shoulder once.

“Oh, thank goodness.”

Within seconds of saying that, you drowse off again. Five shuts his eyes and releases an inaudible sigh, then opens them again to look up at the black, starless sky. Goddammit.

Shit.

Immediately, Five crawls towards you, grasping your shoulder and shaking it. You groan again. It’s low and weak, and through the fog in his head, he notes how shallow your breaths have gotten.

“[Y/n]. Wake up,” he hisses, but all you do is let out a sob. Not again. He shakes you harder, wincing as his headache increases. “Wake up, goddammit –”

Finally – finally – you react. Shooting up with a gasp, you scramble away from him. Five instinctively seizes your foot before it shoves into his side.

“[Y/n].” He lets go and grasps your shoulders, feeling them shudder beneath his hands. Tears run from your eyes and mucus from your nose – they shine wet against your face, exposed by the dying campfire. Shit. This is worse than last time. “It was just a dream, alright? Calm down.”

All you can reply with is a squeaky wheeze.

Five moves his hands down to your upper arms and settles back on his knees, mind going a thousand miles a second. You sniffle loudly, trying to catch your breath. You’re still shaking. He needs to calm you down somehow. How …

“Do you remember what it was about?” he eventually asks, trying to be delicate. (God, it still feels strange.)

“N-Nuh-No,” you force out. Sweat glistens on your brow. “I c-c-can’t rem-member …”

“It was just bad.”

“Yes.”

Five tightens his lips as you choke down another breath, exhaling through your mouth with a whimper. 

A few weeks back, while the two of you were waiting out a dust storm, you had mentioned how rarely you remembered your dreams. It was something you had hated growing up – you had three older siblings that could remember details from their dreams like they were another life, and every morning you had to listen to their tales of adventure and horror and romance while you grumbled over your breakfast. You strained and strained for just one shred of a dream, but in the end, you could only recall darkness and the fluffiness of your pillow from the previous night.

It was just a piece of trivia to pass the time then. You never brought it up again, and Five tucked it away to join the other little facts he had learned about you, the ones that were of no particular importance but still, somehow, things he kept in the back of his mind.

He’s since discovered that even though you don’t remember what your dreams were about, you certainly remember how you felt – particularly your terror during nightmares, which he doesn’t recall you having until several days ago.

His name leaves your mouth as a croak.

Subconsciously, Five runs his thumbs over the rough sleeves of your coat. You seem a little better now, but still tense. “Yeah?”

You wet your lips. “I-Is it okay if I … um …”

“Sure,” he murmurs.

Without another word, you lean in, pressing your forehead into the crook of his neck. Five accepts it silently, and after a slight hesitation, he gives in and rests his cheek against the side of your head. 

Your relief is almost palpable. As your sniffles subside, he lifts one hand to fleetingly cradle the back of your head, considering, but … no. He pulls back and shifts his hands down to your forearms instead. Holding hands would be too much, but this – this was okay. His migraine begins to recede, and a small, barely audible sigh escapes his lips.

You have a strong will. This is just a mental hurdle, some fear of the unknown resurfacing. He’ll offer his help if you need it.

(After all, you’ve done the same for him before. He’s just paying you back. Nothing more, nothing less.)

“Thank you,” you mumble after a while.

“Don’t worry about it.”