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mangoshorthand · 10 months

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Thing of the Past- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch7 (Hard Feelings Part 4)

SUMMARY: You can't avoid it any longer: Five has to meet your parents. It goes more wrong than you could possibly imagine, spiralling to bring up secrets he'd rather stay buried.

⚠️TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine- Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven/Epilogue

Can the French countryside and good wine offer Five some respite?

Chapter contains some era appropriate deadnaming of Viktor.

⚠️Please heed content warning⚠️

Chapter 7: Therapy

You had checked in utilizing your very broken French. While Five is a polygot, French is, surprisingly, not in his repertoire beyond the basics. The check-in clerk had taken pity on you and switched to English as soon as the conversation became too advanced for your paltry (though valiantly applied) vocabulary.

Five wears a cleanly styled linen suit over a t-shirt yet is already too hot. You fare slightly better in a kaftan sundress. Back in New York, after Lila brought him back, him putting on this outfit had been the thing to convince you that he really was coming. You hadn't needed his apologies: you'd forgiven him even as you stared into the empty shower.

Now, you’re sitting together on the honeymoon suite’s terrace, looking out on the kitchen-garden nearest to you and fields of lavender, vine and olive-tree stretching off into the hills. The air is balmy and the herbal smell of the surrounding country seems to drift and play on the breeze, carrying sweet lark song along with it.

Turning his face to the sun and stretching out like a cat, he fans himself with a new panama hat.

“I gotta say, if I’m going to have a breakdown, I really couldn’t choose a better place.”

You squeeze his hand and pour him another glass of champagne.

“Well, here we are. We take things at your pace.”

He pulls his sunglasses down.

“How’s this for a plan,” he says, crossing his legs and reclining further in the sun lounger, “First, we go to the spa. Maybe go for a schvitz, then cool off in the Kneipp basins, then we get you a facial or a massage and I’ll have a jet shower, (think I’ll leave anything that involves being touched by a stranger for a few days), then we have dinner, maybe order some wine, then some more wine. And then I’ll get fucked up beyond all recognition, take you to bed and see if I can't throw a quick fuck into you without crying.”

He's trying to style it out with self-deprecation, downing the whole glass of champagne in one.

“You had me until the last part,” you smile. This is a little worrying. His hand feels fragile under yours, old somehow.

“That was just a rough sketch. We’ll iron out the kinks as we go.”

“No massage or facial for me today. Maybe we’ll get a couples one later if you feel up to it. But everything we do, we do together. If you’re getting fucked up, I’m getting fucked up. If you fuck me and cry, I fuck you and we cry together. You get me?”

He grins shakily, lifting your hand to his lips and kissing it with the gratitude he can't speak.

The resort is beautiful, nestled between mountain ranges in the countryside of Southern France. The buildings are rustic and airy; exposed beams running between traditional cobble-stone walls. Inside the floors are wood or stone-tile; the inner walls are covered in simple, light plaster and occasional half-wainscoting. Thin curtains flank the windows within and wooden shutters without. Inside stays blessedly cool, while the sun almost cracks the flags on the terraces and beats down on the vines, sweetening the growing fruit.

As the afternoon wore on, Five had relaxed, even kissing you in the steam room once it was deserted. He’d scooted along the wooden ledge like a boy edging towards his crush, smiling sheepishly. Slowly, he moved his tilted face towards yours. You’d stayed still, letting him test his own boundaries. His eyes flicked from yours to your lips and back again, only closing his eyes when the sides of your noses touched. He’d stayed like that for a moment before, fraction-inch by fraction-inch, he closed the gap between your mouths.

His first touch was gentle: a tender but close-mouthed press to the corner of your lips. The second was the same but to your cupid’s bow. His breath had quivered across your lips and his hands gripped the bench beneath him as he opened his mouth slightly. When he had taken your lower lip between both of his, you could feel him tremble.

Eventually, haltingly, he’d deepened the kiss and you’d allowed your lips to match his tender siege. When you’d broken apart, (quickly, for fear of discovery), there had been a familiar glint in his eye that you were happy, if surprised, to see. He looked on the verge of suggesting you head back to your suite right away but something had shifted inside him and he’d looked away instead, smiling guiltily and rubbing his neck a little.

At dinner, you get through a bottle of wine between you before the appetizers even arrive. By the time they do, you’re both extremely giggly. Five's laughter verges on the unhinged at times but you're glad to see him acting this close to happy

“They are never going to accept American bookings ever again.”

He snickers, “Well we gotta keep up our international reputation as obnoxious assholes. GARCON?!” he raises his hand and voice to a passing waiter.

“FIVE!” you hiss, embarrassed but amused.

He orders you another bottle of the wine from the unamused waiter.

"Désolé monsieur, mon mari..." you search for the appropriate phrase and the waiter smiles.

"C'est bon, madame. He is having too much..." he eyes the empty wine bottle, "fun?"

"Oui," you grin and Five nods emphatically at this description.

By the time the main courses arrive, you’re on bottle three.

“Can I try your steak?”

“Nope.” he says, through a mouthful.

“What, asshole, not going to let your wife try a bit of your dinner?”

“Nope.”

“You tried mine!”

“You offered. I didn’t.”

“What happened to ‘what’s mine is yours’?”

“Don’t remember vowing that one.”

“Fine. Be like that.”

You reach across the table and stab your fork at his beef, successfully spearing a bit. His fork attacks yours, knocking the meat back onto his plate.

“I’ve killed with a fork and I can do it again!” he threatens, laughingly. A woman at the next table gives you a disapproving look.

“I think we should skip dessert." you say, laughing guiltily, "We’re embarrassing ourselves.”

That’s what you end up doing, taking the last third of the final bottle of wine up to your suite.

You flop down on one of the couches by the artistically distressed fireplace and light the huge candle in place of a fire. On the other side of the chimney breast is your pristine bed, spread with crisp white sheets.

Five pours you both another generous glass of wine.

“Salud, dearest.”

You clink and return the salutation. He drinks deeply. He’s had more than you and your head is already swimming.

“I could asp-bolutely go for a massage tomorrow,” he slurs.

“Eh. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

“I’m coming all the way here and not taking advantage of it all. My back’s tight as all shit.”

“Well…there’s no rush. We can stay as long as we want.”

He waves the hand holding his glass airily, sloshing the wine onto his pants.

“Ah shit.”

You cross to the bathroom unsteadily and return with a hand towel, kneeling beside him and dabbing at his thigh. As you feel the wine soak through the towel, you sense him trying to draw your eye. As you meet his gaze, he grabs your wrist, leans towards you and kisses you fiercely. When you respond, he tugs your wrist towards his crotch, encouraging you to palm the growing erection between his legs.

You turn away, moving your hand away from him by an inch or so. He kisses your neck feverishly.

“Five, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Yes,” his voice is breathy, his nose nuzzles you a little too hard, a little too desperate, “Call it therapy.”

“Five."

His kisses are getting sloppy. He breathes you in, one hand still on yours, manipulating your hand again to knead his crotch. His other arm pulls you forward.

"No."

“Mmmphh?” he’s not paying attention, grinding his hips into your palm.

“I said No!”

First you push him and then he pulls himself away like he’s just received an electric shock. All the colour drains from his face and then floods back. The shame and fear flare in his eyes- he looks on the point of, blinking, running, hurting himself or who knows what, so you grab his upper arms.

“No. No. Don’t worry. It’s fine. You’re drunk. We’re both drunk. I don’t think this is right for you. That’s why I said no. Not because you were doing anything bad. Ok?”

His eyes dart around the floor. He doesn’t seem to be listening.

“Tell me you get it?” you say, shaking him, “You just didn’t hear me. Don’t fall into blaming yourself. It’s not your fault.”

You pull him down so he lies against your stomach, his wet pants sticking to his legs. He resists at first but then accedes, letting you hold him as you continue to whisper:

“Not your fault. It's Ok. Not your fault.”

You rock him gently, stroking his hair. After a few minutes of silence on his end, you think you’re finally getting through to him. Soon, he whispers:

“Can I…tell you about it?”

“Of course. I might not always know what to say, but I can listen.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long few minutes. You don’t prompt him. It’s like you can feel the whirring in the head beneath your fingers. Finally, he speaks.

“I liked it.”

“Ok.” You keep your voice neutral. He needs to lead this.

“After the first time, whenever she’d touch me, I’d get hard. Like my dick was Pavlov’s fucking dogs.”

He falls into silence as you flounder, out of your depth.

“That must have been-"

“-I feel like a fraud using the word ‘rape’ about it. Because…No, I didn’t like it, but I undressed myself and then I’d let her...and every time, I’d get hard and I’d come and it felt good.”

You stroke his head, massaging your fingers into his scalp. You hope your touch is enough to reassure him of your acceptance and empathy.

“My whole life I’ve been at the mercy of whatever my body wants. Eating cockroaches when the hunger got so bad it hurt, coming whenever The Handler told me I could, craving sugar and jerking off 24/7 when I was going through puberty- both times.

“Like your body keeps betraying you?”

“Exactly.”

“But that’s what bodies do, right?”

“Huh?”

You fucked up already trying to just listen and you’re too smashed to convey ideas eloquently.

“Never mind. I just mean, bodies are ph-physio-logical, right?" You're not sure the six-syllable word came out okay but he hangs on your words nevertheless.

"Bodies just react to stuff. Your dick got hard because that’s what dicks do. You got hungry because your body was trying to keep you alive. You wanted candy during puberty because all the hormones and jerking off and whatnot uses a lot of energy or...whatever.”

He turns his head, watching the candle flame flicker.

“I guess. I just hate being out of control of it.”

“But aren’t we all out of control of it?”

He doesn’t answer, lost in a memory.

“One time she was touching me," he brings his hands up to face in demonstration, one of his fingers parting his lips. “I told her I didn’t want to. But then she grabbed me through my pants. And she...felt how hard I was.”

He puts on a higher, silkier voice that sends a chill up your spine:

"Part of you wants it Number Five. It's not a big part, but a part nevertheless."

He’s clearly experiencing it again- flashing back in that really-real way that only someone who suffers as he does can. You ease his fingers away from his face, interlacing yours with his. You squeeze his fingers a little harder than would be comfortable; acting as a counter weight to keep his consciousness anchored in the present. It takes him a few moments to throw off the vision.

He takes a deep, deep breath, “I let her do it. And it felt good...and bad."

And then he laughs suddenly. His face twists into its most derisive lines. Directed at you, it would be enraging; directed at himself, it's heart-breaking:

"Ever wonder how I found out that I hate any more than one finger up my ass," the laughter intensifies, slightly hysterical, "who knew it could bleed for days, right?"

"Oh Five."

You blink away tears and he scoffs: clearly he doesn't believe he deserves your pity.

"I could have blinked away at any point, but I didn't. I was too..."

Halfway through the thought, the hot anger fades.

"And even now, sometimes when I think about it...I get hard.”

He whispers this last part, flushing deep with shame.

You wince in sympathy. You can’t let him explore this idea any more without comment lest he fall further into the well of self-blame. You try to keep the slight slur out of your voice.

"Would you say the same to me?”

“Huh?”

“So, say I’m holding a gun and a guy touches me: I say no but then he puts a hand down my panties and feels that I’m wet. If he fucks me without consent, would you say I let him do that if I didn’t shoot him? Even if I came from what he did to me?”

He rolls to look up at you. He seems to be really considering this.

“Killing someone is different from injuring them or blinking away.”

“Okay, fine. What about...Aoife."

"Don't."

Your voice trembles as you push back your own instinctive repulsion at invoking your baby's name in this context. Five holds out a hand in an instinctive warding-off gesture, eyes closed against the thought.

"She can blink. Or will when she's older-"

"Don't!"

"-in your position, would she be letting it happen if she didn’t blink away?”

“No!" he says, horrified, "of course not!”

“Then what makes you different? Because you're man?"

"No." he says, though by his tone you know it factored unconsciously into his thinking. He opens his eyes and takes a second before settling on another way to blame himself.

“I kept going back.”

“Ok. Why was that?”

“She was my boss. The Handler- that’s what it means. She handled the Temporal Assassins.” He laughs darkly, “I guess with me she took her title more literally.”

“Because she had power over you?”

“Yeah. I guess. I couldn’t not go back. Without the Commission it was back to cockroaches and freezing winters.”

You give him a small shrug and jerk of the head, face saying: Well, what could you do about it, then?

And, in his answering look, he takes the point.

You both take a few moments to collect yourselves. You think you've got through. You continue to stroke his hair, swirling dark locks between your fingers.

“Do you think it was just you?” you ask, finally.

His brow contracts in thought.

“I... guess so...I never thought about that.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there were others. People who leverage positions of power in that way tend to make a habit of it."

He hems, so you push him ever so slightly.

“How does that idea make you feel?”

“I don’t know…” and then, with a return to his usual irony, “are you trying to therapize me?”

“Yes. $140 please,”

He laughs softly and you lean over to kiss his head.

“I think there’s more to say…but maybe that’s enough for tonight.”

You stroke his forelock out of his eyes.

“Bed?”

“Yeah.”

As you snuggle under the sweet-smelling sheets, you pretend not to notice his erection when you put your arm around his waist. You feel it even though he shifts away quickly.

It takes a long time for you to fall asleep but, once you do, he cries softly; biting down on his clenched fist to contain the sobs. He's glad his shaking breath and body doesn't wake you.

For this time of year in Dallas, it had turned out a fine day. November sunlight reflected off the bottles behind the bar, flashing occasionally as the bartender walked from one end to the other.

The Guinness was rich, fortifying. His chin rested on his closed fist and the briefcase sat at his feet, pressed tightly against the bar with his shins. Waiting was ninety percent of his role. Soon, it would be time for him to take his position, time to assemble the gun, time for the bewitching quiet before the storm.

He was nearly there; he could sense it. Decades of planning were nearly coming to fruition. He was missing…something…but he knew he was close; a single flash of inspiration and he’d know. He'd be able to do what his entire life has been leading up to: avert the apocalypse, save his family and go home.

He took out Vanya’s book and flicked to his latest lines of proof for the existence of a bound for the number of limit cycles. It seemed…okay…but the faint needling in the back of his mind wouldn’t fade.

He jumped as something was placed down in front of him with a thunk. The bartender stood on the other side, one hand still on the cannister. Five met his grim eye contact and gave a confirmatory nod; his master’s voice.

Resting his book face down and open on the bar, he unscrewed the tube and pulled out the scroll within:

All the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. She knew? How deep in his head was she? Shit, he couldn’t even think now without her knowing about it? He felt panic rise as he screwed the memo into a ball and thrust it into his pocket. The barman eyed him with a raised eyebrow. Did he know? Did all the Commission know? About his plans? …. Maybe even about what he kept letting her do to him?

He mentally shook himself. There was no use in thinking of it, not right then. Maybe not ever. To calm himself, he picked up his book again and read between his own scrawled equations, trying to relax. To focus.

‘Though prone to arrogance and outbursts, even more than the average preteen, Five was my sole confidante in the years before he disappeared. It almost seemed fitting that of all the siblings to leave us, it would him, who I fully trusted and who fully trusted me. Five wasn’t always one to comfort me but he was the least susceptible to Dad’s manipulations. He felt he could be more open with me as I didn’t have abilities like my other siblings, I was non-threatening.'

Sweet, quiet little Vanya. She was his sole confidante too. Who knew she was a simmering ball of rage, just like the rest of them?

…He hadn’t found her in the wreckage, in the brick dust that got into his lungs and developed into the hacking cough that still plagued him. Alone. So alone but for Dolores.

Wasted landscape, the smell of rotting corpses. Falling ash. Fires burning and burning and burning and burning and-

When he wakes up with one of his regular nightmares, he’s clammy with sweat. It’s one of the bad ones after which he takes a short time to remember where he is.

“We’re in France, Five. You’re safe.”

His breathing traps in his throat; barking there. He wipes his forearm over his face, scrubbing at ash he’s convinced is there.

“Family!”

“They’re safe. You saved them, remember?"

“Vanya!" he calls, fevered and unhearing, “Luther?”

“Viktor, Five. He’s fine. They’re all fine; you did it. Klaus just got some of his art into a gallery. Viktor’s still first chair. Remember we went to his concert last month? He played Mozart's violin concertos? Luther and Sloane are happy and-”

"Viktor..." the name begins to contextualize it for him- it brings him closer to the present, “...Aoife?”

“She’s safe. Can you remember who she's with?”

You hold his head to your chest and kiss his hairline.

“She’s…she’s…” his wide eyes dart wildly, as if searching the recesses of his mind for the recollection, “she’s with…Diego. Diego and Lila…and Santi.”

“That's it: she's back at home.”

You hold him as his breathing, though still hard, begins to sound less constricted.

“I miss her.” he manages.

“Me too sweetie.”

You help him slow and deepen his breathing with the counting exercise you always use. When he's breathing better, you sing him Dusty Springfield again. It helps.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88

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