Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happened, once. 

Sometime after Damian turned eighteen he decided to play the hero, like those academy kids he used to see on TV, for the first time. He made the decision but it wasn’t much of a choice, given the circumstances. He wasn’t interested in being a wonder of the world for all to gawk at like some kind of dancing circus monkey. His parents didn’t turn a blind eye to what he could do (first debating whether to take him to some kind of hospital before ultimately deciding it was a good thing, but kept secret) nor were they particularly keen on asking for that “strange man’s” help. Damian figured he would do just fine on his own (despite all the trial and error with his repairs). He just didn’t like how that man seemed to parade his children around on camera, like they were tools of his own making instead of people. Damian didn’t want to be seen as a tool to be used. 

It wasn’t until he was sixteen that his parents suddenly became uncertain of him.

That little superhero team had broken up at that point and he was in for a shit-show of his own. That year he developed his other power.

As young as five he’d been able to restore anything he laid his hands on (from broken toys and accidentally dropped dishware to old rusted pipes in their home) to pristine condition within a couple of minutes. He worked hard to understand what he can do, examined every possible aspect in order to work out all the kinks and mishaps, until his success rate with everyday objects reached nearly 100%. He never feared it. His parents never feared it.

It was a blessing.

But this other power. How could anyone look him in the eye and ever think it was anything other than a curse? Now his own parents can’t bear to look openly into his eyes, because they’re afraid of what they might see. Afraid of what he might make them see. He doesn’t blame them for it anymore. 

It was all about the fear, at first, he came to realize. Fear and doubt fed this “secondary” power. Manifesting such horrific things that lashed out at other people, so that it could protect him. It would make him see and feel things too, make him strip a person bare to reveal all of their vulnerabilities to him. This invasion of their thoughts and feelings choked him with so much guilt when he was younger. Hours after an incident would have him locked away in his room, curled beneath his blankets in the dark with the loudest song he could find on his Walkman so that he could block it all out. He saw things and felt things he was never supposed to see and feel from another person. 

He tries his best to brush it off these days. He hides behind his dark, fake prescription glasses and adverts his eyes as much as he can get away with, keeping eye-contact down to a mere couple of seconds so he can’t take a peek at anything. He hadn’t touched another person for more than a fleeting moment for nearly 4 years at that point.

And somewhere along the way, he managed to convince himself that it was fine. That he’d be. Just. Fine. He moved out. Got a head start on college. He studied business. Just opened his own repair shop (“THERE’S NOTHING DAMIEN’S REPAIRS CAN’T FIX”). Got a dog. 

Everything would be fine. 

Everything.

Would.

Be.

Fucking .

Fine.

Until it wasn't. 

“What. the. Fuck .” 

Damian said this quietly, in disbelief. Cause honestly, it’s not everyday that he sees some wanna-be vigilante bleeding out right by his garbage. The dude’s even got an eye mask and everything, like it would somehow conceal his identity. He’s also pointing a very sharp looking knife right at Damien, who’s staring dumbly down at him with an arm full of junk he cleared his new office of.

Mr. Wanna-be is breathing pretty heavily, with his other hand clutching his side. In the faint glow of the street light at the mouth of the alley the man’s dark eyes gleamed dangerously, like a cornered predator. Damian isn't wearing his glasses, having left them on top his desk. With his “secondary” power, Damian can clearly see the dark blood spilling between the man’s fingers. Well, he’s more of a boy really. No older than Damian, barely aging out of his teens. 

“Just walk away, kid.” Mr. May-or-May-Not-Be-A-Teenager growled at Damien. “Forget whatcha saw here.” He emphasized his threat with a little thrust of his knife at Damian, trying to scare him off.

See the problem with that, is that Damian hasn't felt truly afraid of another person in a long time. As much as his "secondary" power weighs him down, like a heavy possessive hand resting on the back of his neck, it also makes him feel safe. Bold, even. All he’d have to do is hold this dude’s glare for a few seconds and then Mr. I’ve-Got-A-Knife-So-Your-Move would be at Damian's mercy; he'd come to know what it really takes to terrify someone into submission. Damian’s not going to do that though.

“No way.” Damien snarked. “And have you ruin the reputation of my business by dying? Instead of people being like ‘Oh that place is soo awesome, they really CAN fix anything!’ They’ll all be like ‘That’s the place where that one guy bled out’. Fat chance buddy.”

Mr. I’ve-Still-Got-A-Knife-But-Don’t-Know-What-To-Do-About-It-Now didn’t seem to know how to take that, his arm brandishing the knife going slightly lax in response.

“I’m going to lower this box I have now,” Damien said next, gentling his tone. He really shouldn’t be antagonizing a guy with a knife, even if he’s bleeding out. He waited for the other to reply for a beat, but when he didn’t protest Damien cautiously squatted down and set it down by one of the trash cans that sorted acted as a barrier between them, half obscuring the bleeding man. “I’m going to raise my hands,” he said, as he did just that. The guy didn’t seem remotely afraid of Damian, but understandably wary. “I’m going to rise now,” he stated next. The man didn’t move, but Damian could now see his hand holding the knife beginning to tremble. 

They stared at each other for a moment, not sure where to go from here (well, Damian stared at the guy's forehead). The guy was growing paler and weaker. Obviously Damian wasn’t going to do the guy a favor and walk away from this. He wasn’t going to call the police either, because he’s probably on their shit list (depending on how long he’s been doing this).

So.

Damian makes a decision. 

“I’m going to help you up, now.” He says. “And you’re not going to stab me, agreed?”

“And what,” the man gasped, “is the plan exactly?”

With an arched eyebrow, Damian said simply. “To save your life, obviously.”

Chapter Text

Mr. Totally-Dying-Right-Now really was holding out for as long as he could in that alley. As soon as Damian dragged his heavy ass onto his ratty couch in his workshop/backroom/breakroom the sorry lump passed out from blood loss. As dire as the situation was, Damian couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief that he didn’t have to worry about catching the guy’s eyes. He could set about saving him without the added anxiety of seeing too much. 

Damian worked silently and quickly. He retrieved his first-aid kit from his office, setting it down on the floor by his feet. He carefully sat the man up and stripped him of his (frankly, distressing amount of) knives and his torn up black shirt. He set them down so they wouldn’t get in his way. Damian’s eyes quickly assessed the extent of the wound. Someone tried to slice him, but didn’t inflict too much damage. Either the guy who attacked him had sloppy aim or he dodged just in time to have it graze him instead of gut him. He’s lost a lot of blood though. His mind raced as he began to disinfect and clean the wound. When Damian cleaned away the blood and excess disinfectant he could see that it was deeper than he was comfortable with, but he could do this. Deep breaths. He went through the motions meticulously in his head, as though reading an instruction manual in his mind’s eye.

Disinfect hands. 

Disinfect needle.

Count off the stitches. 

The only sounds were Damian’s steady breaths and the man’s ragged ones over the rasping of the ancient A.C. unit overhead. Damian hasn’t gotten around to laying his hands on it yet. His quaint shop needs a lot of work before he opens it to the public. He’ll use his “primary” power to fix up any major damage, but decided to fix up everything else without it. His parents made sure he didn’t automatically resort to his “primary” once he was old enough to understand their advice. He’s not a real expert in anything particularly, priding himself as a jack-of-all-trades kind of guy. It’s come in handy a few times, especially to keep away any suspicion as to how he’s able to repair some things so quickly. As a rule, Damian at least tries to take about 20 to 30 minutes or a few hours when repairing something (not enough to seem lazy or incompetent and not too quickly so that it invites scrutiny); this way he can work on multiple projects and finish them all within a day. 

Four.

Five.

Six.

He’s got to figure out the kind of paint he wants for the walls. The front needs to be presentable and inviting. He’s always been partial to blue (maybe a darker shade though so it doesn’t look like a nursery) or a shade of green that’s not too irritating to the eye but something that would put people at ease. That could turn out real ugly though… Either way, he’ll focus on that first and then as business begins to flow, he’ll fix up the rest of the backroom so that it doesn’t look like something Jigsaw would use to torture people in. He definitely can’t keep this couch now, which sucks because he’s too cheap to buy a new one. He could ask around and see if any of his old classmates would be willing to give one up. 

Seven.

Eight.

Damian glanced up at his patient. Still out. Damian didn’t bother removing the guy's mask. It wasn’t out of any desire to protect his privacy though, because Damian knows exactly who he’s helping out. 

The Kraken, some called him. But that man called him Number 2. Like he wasn’t even a person. 

As much as Damian criticized the Kraken for choosing his garbage heap to almost die by, he couldn’t really fault him for wanting to play superhero. Growing up, Damian didn’t care enough about the little heroes to keep tabs on them. He rarely engaged with his peers over who had the cooler power or speculated what kind of power they’d have if they were born special. But even though his peers seemed so ready to praise the little heroes for their otherness, somehow Damian doubted they’d be so welcoming if he revealed how “special” he actually was. Maybe they would have been excited at first. But then they probably would’ve tried to take advantage. He would've been treated like a tool to exploit. 

Nine.

Ten.

Maybe… Maybe if he had a better understanding of his “secondary” power, he’d try his hand at playing superhero too. But just as soon as Damian thought it he quickly shook his head to get rid of that idea. It would be disastrous. He could hurt a lot of people, the wrong people. 

Done. 

Damian sat back a little to survey his work. He gently dabbed the closed wound to clean it, before beginning to wrap the pristine gauze over the Kraken’s stomach, his side, his back, and looped around a couple of times. The Kraken’s breathing has evened out some, sending awkward shivers through Damian as the Kraken unconsciously puffs against the nape of his neck as Damian works. Once he settles him back down on the cushions, Damian stares blankly at him.

So.

Now what?

His breathing may be steadier, but he’s still too pale to be healthy. He needs blood. But Damian already decided that taking him to a hospital (which would subsequently involve the police no matter how he went about it) was a no go. Without much thought, Damian raised his thumb to his mouth. Before he could anxiously nibble at the tip of his nail, however, he remembered that his hands were bloody (gross). Okay, first things first. Wash hands. Then figure out how to keep the Kraken from dying in his sleep. It’d be irritating if all his effort went to waste. 

Damian’s mind went blank as he washed the grim from his hands at the sink beside the couch. This is so not cool . As much as Damian pretended this whole ordeal has been nothing but an inconvenience, the anxiety of having a real life person actually die in his shop started to eat away at him. He put on a brave face, but he’s always been a coward. Hiding away from other people, but fearful of the shadows. His heart felt like a fist was squeezing the life out of it. He needs to get his shit together before he goes into a full blown panic.

Come on, think.

Think.

Think!

You could always restore his blood. 

When Damian repairs something, his hands glow. 

The skin of his fingers and palms warm until they start to sting as the object mends itself back to pristine condition. It was like cupping his hands over a 4th of July sparkler. At the end, there’s a brilliant flash of light that can temporarily blind you if you look directly at it. Damian’s father quickly bought a pair of protective black-out goggles for themselves after 10 year old Damian accidentally blinded his mother, which lasted for about an hour when he fixed up her worn out frying pan.

He hadn’t experimented much with like healing living things at that point, much less reanimating dead things.

He tried to once when he found a dead bird while playing on the school playground. He’d tucked it into his backpack and then slipped away to a secluded spot after school to revive it. The sensations were the same at first, and he could feel the tiny body twitching and mending itself, but there was no blinding light and suddenly it felt like Damian was being hollowed out from the inside. His vision became spotty, his breathing labored, skin clammy, and (although he wouldn’t notice until much, much later) sections of his dark hair began to bleed white. He passed out just as the bird gave it’s first, lively chirp, fluttering away as Damian stopped breathing all together.

It wasn’t long before a small group of older kids came around the building for a quiet place to smoke and discovered his corpse-like body. Poor kids were scared shitless. Officially the emergency doctors claimed he’d slipped into a very brief coma, although they didn’t know why . Some speculated that he had some form of epilepsy. Luckily his body had recovered enough to start breathing again once the E.M.T’s had shown up, because that would’ve been a disastrous trip to the morgue. And once his parents had been contacted and he was conscious again to see them weep over his exhausted body, his hair had gone back to it’s healthy brown.

(The nurse who came to check his vitals gave a sharp double-take at the color, but was too bewildered to really question it.) 

So.

When he repaired something he usually felt tired after, but mostly it felt like his stomach was going to devour itself out of ravenous hunger. It wasn’t anything a quick sandwich couldn't fix (Maybe two. Or three. Or, like, seven). But when he healed something (or brought it back to life, like that bird) it wasn’t something as simple as depleting stored up energy.

No, it’s his own goddamn life force that’s being taken. Now that’s some scary shit. Reviving that bird had turned his hair and eyebrows completely white and left him in a 30 minute death-like state. It probably totally shortened his lifespan too. 

Anything bigger than that could have serious consequences. 

But the Kraken isn’t dead (yet).

Damian didn’t tell his parents about this side of his “primary” power. And he didn’t fuck around too much with it (certainly never tried to revive poor little dead animals anymore). Healing small inconvenient cuts and bruises was fine or recovering from mild colds quicker than usual was fine too. His parents didn’t notice. He figured he’d be slick with helping them with their aches and pains as they got older (having adopted him when they were in their earlier 40s) by offering massages, claiming he took a few classes when he had the time to justify the inexplicable relief they felt. He started to insist on making them tea afterwards too so they’d think that was the reason why they felt so re-energized. And if he felt that “death-state” beginning to creep up on him, he’d simply tell them he’s going to take a nap and not to be disturbed. It was the perfect excuse his parents’ never questioned. 

He didn’t fall into this “death-state” often because he tries not to be too ambitious. Even though he’s parents' ailments pained him like a physical wound, he was careful to heal them just enough to provide them temporary relief. And because they’ve rarely looked at him since he turned sixteen, the temporary white streaks in his hair went unnoticed most of the time.

This “death-state” could be erratic too. Sometimes he’d only be in one for 20 minutes and other times it would wipe him out for half a day, at least. The gash at his side by itself isn't life-threatening, but the blood loss certainly makes it life-threatening. Healing both the wound and replenishing his blood levels will take too much out of Damian, the wound will have to heal naturally so he's not dragged into his "death-state" which will leave him incredibly defenseless. Damian assumed this kraken was playing at being a hero, but he could be wrong. What if he’s into some shady shit, like he’s a gangster or a hitman or muscle for other gangsters? The guy could be mentally unhinged and violent.  

It was a big risk. 

Damian stared down at the Kraken. His breathing is too shallow. He can’t let him die like this, Damian decides. Not when he could do something to prevent it. But he knows it’s not much of a choice.

His hair turning white could be useful in acting like a warning system. A few sections of his hair would be fine, and if the guy wakes before Damian is dragged under… Well, he supposed his eyes could act as his final defense if the guy gets any wrong ideas. Maybe he’d be too scared to even think of harming Damian and just run off into the night without a second thought. The idea reassured him a little as he dug around his workshop for some kind of mirror, something that was reflective enough so that Damian could see his hair turning white and stop his healing when it felt like too much. Once he found a small, circular flat piece of glass, he placed it delicately on top of the Kraken, so that it rested on the back of the couch, at almost perfect eye-level with Damian. 

Deep breaths.  

He took one of the Kraken’s big hands in his own, cupping between his palms. He could feel bits of him. It wasn’t that alarming or overwhelming though. Passed out like this the Kraken likely wasn’t even dreaming, and that usually kept a person’s emotions muddled more than usual. What he could glean from him, pulled a pensive frown on Damian’s lips.

A lot of pain. A lot of exhaustion. Plenty of anger. Maybe a little of regret...

Damian tried his best not to delve deeper. Emotions could be harder to dissect and understand, but they were still private. They mostly acted like a barrier of fog that protected Damian from picking apart someone’s mind (or rather, protected a person from Damian). If he were to look into his eyes, there was nothing to keep Damian out. Good thing that’s not gonna happen. He tried to will it into the universe that the Kraken was going to stay under while he did this.

Damian’s hands were trembling and he gritted his teeth wishing they’d stop. He rarely touches anyone’s bare skin like this. His parents allowed him to sometimes, forcing themselves to accept the fact that he might get a glimpse of what they’re feeling. He tried not to take it personally when they flinched away from his hands when he massaged their aches away. 

Deep breaths. 

He began to feel that same warm, stinging sensation from his palms. He took deep, measured breaths as he felt the Kraken's body responding to his. As the minutes passed in agonizing slowness, the kraken’s skin was beginning to show a healthier glow again. Damian’s eyebrows have already completely whitened. As he continued, he could feel the heavy hands of the “death-state” wearing him down. His vision was starting to become unfocused, but he could sense that the Kraken needed just a little more. 

Just as he felt the Kraken begin to stir, Damian dropped his hand and slumped to the ground.

Unconscious. 

Diego has never felt so well rested. He usually startled awake in a strange sense of anxious urgency, before his brain caught up with the fact he no longer lived under that man. Therefore didn’t need to worry about surprise early morning emergency drills.

He cringed a little from the sharp fluorescent light overhead, shielding his eyes with his hand. The motion aggravated the wound at his side, sending a quick zing of pain as the stitches were pulled. He took measured breaths as he sat up, inspecting the thick gaze as a small amount of blood bleeds through. He took a moment to survey his surroundings. The opposite wall from the couch was lined with empty cubby holes. There was a decent sized counter on the right of it that had a big board with hooks lined with various tools above it. There were a few bike racks close to the door at the back of the room, which lead to the alley. In the middle of the room, taking up most of the space, is a sturdy wooden table. Various broken objects laid disorganized on top of it. Diego sat up a little more so that he could take a look behind him. A sink right by his head. And a small office by the looks of it right beside the sink. There weren’t any windows. There’s one other door in this room, a swinging one like you’d see in a diner that probably leads to the front of this building. 

His memory of how he got here is a little fuzzy. He’d been patrolling when he happened upon a mugging in progress. There were two men cornering a woman on her way home from work. The first guy was easy to disarm and kick away. The other guy was bigger and more experienced on his feet. Diego still beat him down just like the first. The woman had been smart enough to make her escape while the robbers were distracted with Diego. But Diego didn’t have time to feel a sense of satisfaction for a job well done, before being attacked from behind. He hadn’t even noticed they had a third. The bastard got him good. He remembered stumbling down the vacant streets, melting into the shadow of an alley as police cars zipped by to the scene he left behind. He remembers a kid, snarking at him as if they saw half-dead men bleeding out in that alley all the time and they were fed up with it. He remembers how the kid couldn’t seem to bring themselves to look Diego in the eye. 

There had been something strange about the kid's eyes. They seemed to glimmer from the shadows, like distant stars on a clear night. But Diego could’ve been hallucinating a little from the amount of blood he lost. 

And now he's here, laying on possibly the most uncomfortable couch he’s ever been on. And miraculously still alive. He supposes he has that little brat to thank. As far as he can tell he’s alone, the entire shop as silent as a graveyard. He gathers enough strength to gingerly swing his legs over the end of the couch.

He’d never admit but… he may or may not have let out an undignified yell when he spotted the corpse-like body slumped on the floor by the couch.

What the fuck?

It was the kid, he was sure. But they hadn’t even reacted to the amount of noise Diego made. It didn’t even look like they was breathing. Slower than before, Diego stood up, trying his best not to accidentally step on the kid's legs or feet. He stared down at them. 

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, wake up.”

Nothing.

Diego nudged the body a little with his boot. Still no response. Either this kid slept like the dead or is, actually, dead. 

Fuck. 

With a grunt of pain, Diego bent down to pick the kid up. He scrutinized the white streaks in the kid’s brown hair and the whitened eyebrows. As white as bone. It’s a weird dye-job but he had Klaus for a brother growing up, so he's seen weirder.

He gently placed the kid’s limp body on the couch, grimacing slightly at all the blood staining the fabric. His breath came out in short pants as the wound on his side began to burn in protest of his movement. He pushed through it though, so he can lower to his knees. He carefully places an ear to the kid's chest, searching for a heartbeat. It takes a moment, but he hears one. Although it’s very faint. He breathes out a sigh of relief. Whatever went on while he was out, at least it looks like the kid’s gonna be just fine. 

He’s not sure what to do now. He stares down at the kid’s face. Pretty, Diego thinks idly. Eyes trailing from the kid’s long lashes, down their straight nose, to their relaxed mouth. They can't be much younger than Diego. Diego debated whether or not to stay until the kid wakes from whatever weird sleep they're in. But he imagines that the kid probably wouldn’t like that. Despite their short interaction, Diego can almost perfectly guess how the kid’s going to react when they wake up to Diego staring. 

Seriously. Why the fuck are you still here? 

Diego snorts. Well then, he won’t leave a note either. He doubts the kid’s the sentimental type anyway. 

He gathers his ruined shirt and his beloved knives and without a backward glance, he quietly slips out the door into the shadowed alley. 

The next afternoon, Damian is shaken awake by his father.

His hair and eyebrows are back to their healthy golden brown and the kraken is nowhere to be seen. He sits up as his father frets over him, asking all sorts of things like: Why is there a pool of blood? Was Damian injured? Why isn’t Damian saying anything? Uncomfortable questions like that.

Damian tried to catch his father’s eye without much thought of what he’s doing, too focused on how he’s supposed to explain the events of last night in a way that won’t totally freak him out. Although obviously concerned, the man quickly adverts his eyes so they don’t accidentally make eye contact. Damian feels an unexpected flash of hurt that seems to seize his heart like a vice. 

“Dad,” he tries to soothe. “Trust me. It’s better if we forget about all this, okay?”

His parents’ do trust him, even if they're a little scared of him. Damian can live with that. Tries to convince himself that he can. They don’t mention it for the rest of the day, or the day after that. As the years pass and business begins to run as smoothly as Damian had hoped, that strange night is almost completely forgotten. 

Until Damian was forced to remember, some ten years later. 

Chapter Text

Every now and then Damian’s thoughts will stray to the kraken and that night. Usually when the day is slow and his mind begins to wander as he makes his repairs. He doesn’t keep tabs of the kraken’s escapades. His parents were never too interested either, but sometimes Damian would catch a glimpse of an article detailing his latest heroism when his father read the morning paper at the front counter. He really is on the cops’ shit list. He’d heard plenty of criticism about what people think he thinks he’s accomplishing on radio talk shows. 

(Damian always hesitates a beat before switching to a generic rock station.)

Damian didn’t necessarily agree with the way the hosts and their guests grumbled snidely that the city’s police force has many competent, dedicated officers. And they don’t need some adrenaline junkie interfering with their sensitive cases. The Kraken’s got guts and he’s got the drive to do some good in the world. Besides, the amount of crime seems to remain the same, but no doubt the people he’s saved are happy and alive because of the supposed ‘adrenaline junkie’. Damian didn’t think they’d care if he were or not, he’s a hero in their eyes.

Damian could respect that.

That doesn’t mean he wants to see that weirdo’s face ever again, though. 

A fair amount of time has passed since that night. A lot has changed since his surgery a few years ago. Damian has never felt so content with himself, so comfortable in his own skin. He’s comfortable with how his business is going too. Comfortable with the small, but nice townhouse he’s got for himself. Has kept himself company with his dog, Zemel, a cute Jack Russell Terrier, who alerts Damian when a customer comes in when his father’s gone to lunch or is off for the day. And he hasn’t had any incidents in over six years.

It’s a perfectly ordinary, respectable life he’s made for himself. 

“Well, I can definitely drop by later this week to take a look. Maybe Wednesday morning.” Damian drawled, handing over the iPhone in his hand to the old man in front of him, after silently watching a short video of a broken A.C. unit.

The old man, despite his hunched shoulders due to age, is still taller than Damian. He has kind blue eyes and short hair cut close to his scalp, bleached white. He’s a regular customer of Damian’s and he’s positively ancient. A Vietnam War vet, who comes in at least once a week for Damian to piece together something as insignificant as a dinner plate (claiming it to be an heirloom). It’s been almost four years since the beginning of this strange relationship, and at this point Damian doesn’t even charge him anymore. 

He has (or had) no wife, if Damian hazarded a guess, because the guy has not once mentioned one. Usually old men love to chat endlessly about their wives, complaining fondly of their exasperation with them as they ramble on and on about why the item they brought to him is broken. They’re just lonely, Damian knows. They’ve got no one else but their wives to talk to. And Damian, despite his noncommittal one answers and, quite frankly, abysmal customer service skills, is like a breath of fresh air.

He doesn’t hold it against them.

The other man has never confided of a male lover, either. Sometimes he looks a little forlorn and wistful when Damian mentions a few articles he's read of the happenings within the gay community. Or he looks like he wants to share something more, something personal, with Damian when they discuss queer literature and film, but he keeps it to himself and Damian doesn't press him. 

The old man has mentioned a few war buddies here and there that will give him a surprise call, but Damian suspects the man is pretty much on his own, with no family left or close friends to look after him. Out of necessity, Damian had to distance himself from others. He’s done this for so long, he’s almost convinced himself that being alone is something that’s comfortable for him, something that’s good for him even. He’s never been a particularly charismatic person or got along easily enough with strangers to try his hand at small talk.

But being somewhat cozy with his aloneness didn’t mean he didn’t feel lonely. Sometimes it was like a physical ache that he couldn’t soothe, a deep sense of emptiness and just not belonging anywhere that swallowed up his heart and hollowed him out. And for a relatively shy guy like himself, who didn’t feel the need to fill the silence, to feel something so painful, someone like the old man, who is so earnestly friendly and does need human interaction…

Well.

He can only imagine how deep the pain runs inside his weathered, frail body. 

“But the heat’s supposed to get pretty bad so if you’ve got someone to stay with, you should give them a call. You’re too old to sweat in an apartment without any air conditioning, Mr. Katz.” 

Mr. Katz slowly pockets his iPhone, leaning heavily on his cane as he shifts his weight. The corners of his eyes wrinkle as he gives Damian a pointed look. “As always, I appreciate your bluntness, Damian.” His tone is as dry as a sweltering desert. “But I’ve already told you too many times to just call me Dave .”

“Come on, Mr. Katz, I have to maintain an appearance of some professionalism, here. I’ve got a business to run, you know.”

Dave snorts softly at the young man’s cheek. “I suppose there are a few buddies from the war I can call on, who still live in the city, and pay a visit to them. And Wednesday morning works just fine. Say around... 10 o'clock?”

“Sure thing. And don’t worry about any fees. I’ve got you covered.” Damian walks Dave to the door, the old man shaking his head, and Zemel happily following right at their heels. “You’ve become far too generous with me, son. An air conditioning unit is worth more than a few dollar store dinner plates. You’ve got a business to run after all.” He parrots Damian's words with a sly tone.

They stopped right at the door. Zemel stands on his hindlegs to paw at Damian’s jeans. Damian ignored his dog for the moment and gave Dave an exasperated look. “Quit trying to give me your hard earned retirement money, old man. You’re supposed to be spending that on luxury vacations and shitty, over priced champagne. Not some rusty piece of junk metal someone swindled you into buying for twice the amount it’s actually worth.”

“You mind your manners when speaking to your elders, young man.” Dave said sternly, but he couldn’t hide the mirth dancing in his keen blue eyes. “Fine then. Consider any money I give you from now on as merely generous tips for your services.”

“Don’t put it like that,” Damian grimaced good-naturedly. “People will think I'm some kind of escort.”

Dave is a good humored man, and merely laughed out right, delighted. “An escort is a perfectly respectable job, son. And I, for one, think you'd make a delightful escort. I certainty enjoy you're company; you make things interesting."

"Glad I can keep you entertained." He replied dryly, but flushed with secret pleasure at the other man's open fondness of him. 

They are friends, even if neither of them have come right out and said it. Damian calls Dave at least twice a week to make sure he's doing alright. He’ll come over on his days off, when he closes up shop, and bring leftovers from his parents for the old man. Dave will even stop by to play a round of checkers with him when his hands aren’t full of requests.

Damian would’ve offered to have Dave stay a day or two at his own home, but the man’s refused his invitations enough times he doesn’t even bother to bring it up for the sake of being polite. The guy refuses to “impose” on Damian or Damian’s parents (when invited for dinner or lunch), but is perfectly fine being imposed on by Damian.

Such a weirdo.

Damian politely held the door open as Dave said his good-byes to both him and Zemel, eyes bright with delight as he waved his bony fingers at the dog, who tried to nip playfully at the tips. Then Dave straightened with a stern expression, leaning more heavily on his cane. "Now don't take on too much, you hear me son? I know how much your...gift, exhausts you. Take your time with your work and eat plenty of your sandwiches yes?"

"Of course, Dave. I'll keep that in mind." Damian said with a soft smile. A sharp flash of regret ran through his heart. He wished he could take off his dark glasses and meet Dave's eyes openly and honestly. But he knows the older man doesn't fault him for his cowardice, even if he's never asked anything of Damian he cannot give, his keen and gentle eyes assure him of this.

With a parting smile and reassured nod they parted ways, for now. Damian watched as Dave slowly made his way down the sidewalk, before returning to the counter and giving Zemel a milk bone. 

He looks rough.

Is the first thought Damian has when he spots his latest customer hovering by the magazine rack. He's willowy and sickly pale, with tight, rumpled clothes and smeared make-up. He looks like he just got thrown out of some sleazy nightclub and it’s almost Noon. Damian’s scrutinizing gaze settles on the other man talking quietly to the first. He’s more clean-cut, with a stylish leather jacket and neat, black hair. His expression is somewhere between exasperation and concern, as the flamboyant of the two appears to dismiss him with an airy wave of his hand. They make quite the odd pair. Zemel is not in the shop, his father having stopped by to drop off Damian’s lunch and take the dog home for him. Damian leans a casual hip on stool behind the front counter, adjusting his glasses. 

“How may I assist you today, Sir?”

The taller man spins around on his heel, black rimmed eyes lighting up as they fall on Damian. “Well now, aren't you a handsome thing,” He purrs. Damian arched his brows. He saunters over, almost looming over Damian. Although his clothes are black, they are nonetheless rakish as his too small shirt reveals the lean muscle of his midriff and the absurd leather pants cling to his long legs like a second skin. The leather is cut in a way that exposes the pale tones of the sides of his legs when his equally long coat (lined with faux fur) sweeps behind him. He tries to catch Damian’s eyes as he peers through the dark plastic of his glasses, his reflection curiously looking back at him.

“Is it really true that you can fix anything? I've heard some interesting things about this little shop of yours, but I'm not convinced you're all they say you are.” 

“No request is too big to handle.” Damian replies. He makes a point to tilt his head down and up, as if sizing them up. “Whatcha got for me, pretty boy?” It’s his turn to arch his eyebrows, but he looks far too delighted at the sarcastic bite in the compliment.

"Oh, I'm pretty alright. But I'm not really a boy. Or a man, for that matter." They said, purposely pouting their lip. Seeing them up close like this pulls a barely noticeable frown on Damian’s lips. They look like they haven't slept in days or had a decent meal for perhaps longer than that. The fluorescent lighting of his shop highlights the gaunt planes of their high cheekbones. They'd probably be considered rather stunning if they took better care of themself. Their eyes alone were a striking green, but are haunted in a way that has the hair at the back of Damian’s neck stand up. He quickly averted his eyes to keep himself from seeing anything, the other none the wiser.

His customer reaches into the pocket of their long coat, then places a beat up, outdated iPod on the counter for Damian to inspect. Their black fingernails tap rhythmically to a slow, contemplative beat. "May I ask what your pronouns are?" Damian asks politely. He picks up the device, feeling over the smooth (in some places) and cracked (in many places) surface with a delicate touch. His customer looks curious. "They/Them on a good day. But I've never been too picky. He/him works just fine too. How 'bout you handsome?"

"He/Him," Damian mumbles, somewhat distracted. No parts are missing. It's doable, but would take a good chunk of his energy. Electronics were trickier to deal with as Damian had to focus a little more in his mind’s eye, a complex skeleton of wiring and microchips or whatever taking shape. 

"Is today a good day?"

"I suppose that depends on what you can do for me. Soooo, whatcha think, Mr. Fix-it. Is it a lost cause?” There's a slight sarcastic edge to their words. Damian shrugs. “It’ll look practically brand new when I’m done with it. Assuming that’s what you want?”

“And how, exactly, are you going to accomplish that?”

“That’s a family secret.” Damian said. 

They stare down at Damian, eyes sharper than a moment ago. Too sharp for Damian’s liking. Usually people looked at him in bemused disbelief whenever he took on their request(s), but didn’t try to delve too deeply. Expressing only delighted appreciation when he brought back their item(s) in pristine condition. But suddenly they blinked and that thoughtful look vanished. They raised their hands in a carefree manner. “Well, then by all means, go work some magic.” Damian eyed the strange tattoos on their right and left palms (Hello | Goodbye), respectively, briefly before setting down the iPod and sliding it back over to them. They looked at it, confused. “First,” Damian raised a finger. “We need to discuss how you’re going to pay me for my services.” 

They look sheepish, but has a calculating shine to their eyes that tells Damian it’s not entirely sincere. They place their palms flat on the counter and leans in. Damian crosses his arms, expectant.

They want to strike a deal.

Damian’s had a few homeless people, prostitutes, and those who’re barely scraping by come into his shop with a box of broken junk, hoping to appeal to Damian’s sense of generosity so he’ll take it off their hands and repair it all without asking for a single buck. Damian’s not a pawnshop, but he allows them to convince him of an exchange. Sometimes it’s a hat, a pair of gloves, shoes, coats, and even jewelry (although without any real value). They’ll sacrifice the clothes on their own backs and mementos of their life in order to sell newly repaired CD players, flip phones, speakers, etc., just for some food, or booze, or a quick hit of whatever drug that’s got a noose around their neck.

Damian has begun to take the exchanged clothes (freshly repaired by his hands) to community centers around the city who give them back to the displaced men and women who shuffle by. He doesn’t know what to do with the jewelry. It didn’t feel right to try to sell it, so he keeps them neatly in a small box and locks it away inside his office desk. They might have been relatively worthless, but they felt too personal; precious in a way he couldn't really articulate. 

“I’m afraid I’m a little low on cash at the moment,” they start, predictably. “Perhaps there’s a solution we can work out that’ll satisfy us both, hmm?” Damian’s eyes flick over to the other customer, who’s still standing by the magazine rack. He’s flipping casually through the pages, more-so out of boredom than actually engaged with the print. Damian watches as he rolls his eyes. Whether in response to his buddy’s words or at something he caught a glimpse of in a gossip column, is unclear. The second man looks like he’s got money, but he doesn’t move to offer any to the first, and the person staring him down doesn’t turn to address their buddy either, like he isn’t even there.

“I am willing to make an exchange,” Damian says at length. “My fee for repairing electronics is ten bucks. If you’ve got anything roughly worth that amount, I’ll consider it a legitimate payment. I’ll even write up a receipt. ” He’s completely bullshitting of course. His parents often scold him for making these kinds of deals because he doesn’t generate any profit from them, refusing to sell the jewelry and clothing. But even if Damian wasn’t doing as well as he is, he’d still take the slight financial hit to help people down on their luck. Life can be hard in this city. Sometimes all someone needs is to be on the receiving end of a single good deed in order to get by for just another day. 

They purse their lips thoughtfully, leaning away from the counter. Their long fingers idly begin to stroke the loose, blue scarf hanging around their neck. “You’re an odd one aren’t you, Mr. Fix-it?”

Damian didn’t say anything to that, waiting patiently for the other to think over his words. He watches as their eyes light up with an idea. They quickly tug the pretty blue scarf from their neck and offer it to Damian, not unlike a knight offering his king his sword. Their cracked lips split into a charming smile. “What about this? It’s good quality.” They insist when Damian doesn’t immediately move to take it. Damian does after a brief pause, careful to avoid touching the other hands. He makes a show of smoothing the dirty fabric between his fingers, inspecting it for any stains or tears. The most significant thing he’s scrutinizing for are missing pieces. He can’t repair anything that’s missing something. 

“This is adequate.” Damian says with a curt nod, carefully rolling the scarf into a neat bundle and setting it aside for later. 

“It should only be about 20 minutes, Uh…” Damian trails off expectantly. They still have that charming smile, but now it looks a little more forced around the edges. “Klaus. You can just call me Klaus.”

“Alright, Klaus. My name’s Damian. Thank you for choosing my services. It’ll be in pristine condition, just as promised earlier.”

That thoughtful stare is back, as Damian grabs the iPod. “Oh yes, your little family secret. I’m looking forward to seeing what kind of miracles you perform here, Damian.” Damian ignored the way his name was rolled flirtatiously. His eyes flick once more to the second man.

He tells Klaus, gesturing to the three plastic chairs lined up at the wall on the far right of his shop, only a couple of steps away from the counter:

“If you've got the time to wait. You and your buddy can sit over there by the wall, while I work. If you need anything, ring the bell by the door.” He didn’t notice the way Klaus tilted their head in confusion or the way the other man’s head shot up in disbelief. Damian had already made his way to the back of his shop, the door swinging quietly behind him. 

“Klaus…. Klaus. Klaus -”

“What?”

“Did you hear what that guy just said?”

“So what?”

“So. I think he can, like see me.”

“Just a fluke, Ben. He’s probably like half-blind or something.”

“Half-blind or not, he was definitely referring to me. Do you see anyone else in this shop?”

“How about this. Why not make yourself useful and take a peek at what he’s doing back there. Aren't you curious about what kind of scam he’s got going on?”

“... Fine.”

Damian settles onto his work stool. He takes off his glasses and sets them on his work table, out of the way. He examines the iPod once more, concentrating as warmth begins to thrum through his palms. He watches as light slowly creeps through the scratches and cracks, shining brilliantly as they start to disappear. He’s halfway done, about 15 minutes into his repair, just a few more cracks across the iPod's screen need to be mended, when a sudden movement catches at the corner of his eye. Damian flinches violently, heart squeezing in fright, the glow of his hands dissipating as he drops the iPod onto his work table. It clatters loudly against the dark wood.

It’s the second man, with the stylish jacket, standing at the door, just as surprised as Damian.

Neither men make any sudden movements. Staring at one another, the mysterious man completely transfixed by Damian's eyes. 

There's a strange light to them, like a candle-lit flame in a pitch black room.

Ben has never seen anything like it. 

“What the hell,” Damian suddenly snarls, breaking the spell that has fallen over them. Ben rears back in shock as Damian stares right at him; as he talks to him. “My backroom is not open to customers. Didn’t you read the sign?” Ben works his mouth open, but he’s too stunned by the interaction with a living person who’s not Klaus to get any words out. Damian's eyes seem glow brighter when Ben doesn't respond, apprehension and an almost primal getawaygetawaygetaway sends a chill down Ben's spine. It felt like he was cornered by a deadly predator. If he wasn't already dead, he'd be fearing for his life.

He hadn't felt something like this in a long, long time.

“Get out, before I throw you out." Damian said, casting his gaze away. "I have half a mind to chuck this iPod out with you too.”

“Sorry!” Ben blurts out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, I mean I was only… I’ll just go wait out front.” He finished lamely.

When Damian looks back up, the man's gone.

“ So, what did you see?”

“...”

“Ben?”

“His hands were glowing.”

Damian is carefully collected when he pushes through the door, 10 minutes later. Despite his dark glasses, Ben can feel the weight of his stare as he stalks towards them. He tries to smile, but is swiftly dismissed by the disgruntled shop owner. Damian tosses the iPod carelessly, but not aggressively, onto Klaus’ lap. 

“I hope it’s to your satisfaction,” his words are subdued, but there’s a distinct tension in the line of his shoulders. Klaus picks up the iPod, eyebrows shooting up to their hairline in complete disbelief. Not a single scratch could be found as they flipped the device between their hands. It looked exactly like the iPod they gave Damian, but like it just came fresh out of its packaging rather than something you’d find in a dirty, abandoned building. 

“Well?” Damian prompted, starting to become impatient with Klaus’ inspection. Klaus looked up with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Are you sure you’re not just switching it out for another. Seriously, this looks way too brand-new. Seems a little suspicious, if you ask me.”

“I get the feeling whoever you’re selling it to isn’t gonna give two shits whether I fixed it or if it’s been store bought. Or stolen.” Damian replied rudely, evidently still bothered by Ben’s earlier intrusion of his work space. “But my business is legit and you best be on your way before I decide I do want a pricier compensation for my labor.”

"Now hold on-," Klaus started, abruptly standing. Damian took a step back. The florescent lights overhead flickered, winking in and out for maybe half a second, but Ben caught it. He glanced at them in bemusement before looking back at Damian. Klaus didn't seem to notice it. "This is like, witchcraft. You can't seriously expect me to take this back with no questions asked. Just who are you?"

"I'm just a guy who fixes things. What more do you want?" Damian said tersely. He was getting more and more agitated, completely unused to being interrogated like this by a customer. He could feel it creeping up on him...the anxiety and the fear. He could hear its taunting whispers in his head, something he's managed to keep at bay for over six years. And the whispers were getting louder as Klaus continued to press him on his 'mysterious superpower' he apparently has.

He's gonna lose his control again. He can't let that happen. 

Ben could feel that something was wrong. The lights were flickering again and the items tucked on the display shelves were beginning to tremble, as though the city was being gently rocked by a mild tremor. Damian is paler than before, his breathing a little more shallow. 

They need to leave.

"Klaus." Ben cut in sharply. His brother shut their mouth and turned to him with arched brows. As soon as Klaus' attention was away from Damian, the flickering and the trembling stopped. "I think we should just go." He said gently. The two brothers stared at one another for a brief moment, before Klaus relented with a roll of their eyes and dismissive wave of their hand.

"Fine." They then turned back to the shop owner, pointing an empathic finger at him. "But don't think I'll forget this, handsome."

In response Damian gave an eerie little smile. "For your sake, you better."

As soon as the two brothers stepped out onto the sidewalk, the door was swiftly and coldly shut in their faces. Damian made a point to lock it and flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED. 

Klaus stuck their tongue out but any offence was quickly forgotten as he cheerily waved the iPod in the air. “Oh the amount of drugs I’ll be able to buy! Hurry along Ben.” Ben lingered, still staring into the now dark repair shop. 

Despite his ominous warning, Ben wouldn't let himself or Klaus forget Damian.

There were too many unanswered questions. Why can he see Ben and talk to him, as if he were alive?

And his eyes... 

Just who is Damian?

Chapter Text

That man is back, the one he caught spying on him as he worked, wearing the same stylish jacket. Only he’s alone this time. 

Damian isn’t surprised to see him as he tries to discreetly hide behind one of his display shelves, pretending to inspect the various items Damian has (random things he’s found at yard sales that he’s restored, some with his ‘Primary’ power and others with his own skill), as Damian speaks with a collector about his prized Russian porcelain doll that’s been damaged. But he didn’t really expect him to show up a day after...whatever happened between them.

He has a much cooler head now that he’s taken a little time to go over it. He closed his shop early yesterday, after they left, and opened later than usual today. He made sure to call his father as soon as he locked up, so that he’d bring Zemel back to his townhouse. He told his father he had a migraine when the man pressed about the early closure. His father merely nodded sagely and made him some tea, fussing over Damian as if he were a child again and kindly ushering him into bed. 

It’s only after he’s finished his first cup of tea, with his father quietly detailing his and Zemel’s walk, that Damian realizes he maintained direct eye contact with Mr. Stylish Jacket and felt and saw absolutely nothing . His cup clattered sharply with the saucer in his hand, startling everyone in the room. Zemel shot up from the foot of the bed, instantly alert. Damian’s father laid a careful hand on his son’s wrist; Damian flinched when he felt the familiar love-concern-unease flow from his father’s fingers and seep into his own flesh. His father didn’t pull away, pressing his lips thin and curling his fingers tighter, as if trying to be brave and show that he’s unafraid of Damian knowing these private emotions. 

“It’s fine, Dad. I’m fine.” Damian smiled, lifting his eyes and stopping just shy of meeting his father’s eyes, instead staring at the bridge of his nose. He may take his dark glasses off when around his family (and Dave, sometimes) but that didn’t mean he became careless and always kept his eyes directed elsewhere. “Alright, son.” His father said. He gently took his cup and saucer. “I’ll just put this away. You should get some rest. I’ll stop by sometime tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here,” Damian said, slumping against his pillows. “I won’t open the shop until after lunch.”

“Okay, son. Rest.”

Damian didn’t rest. He stared out his bedroom window and thought about Mr. Stylish Jacket. It’s not the first time he’s encountered someone... odd, like him, where he can’t see anything in their head or feel any sort of emotion sinking into his skin like a poison, no matter how long he stared into their eyes. It was like a blank space in his mind, usually so crowded by someone else’s fears and anxieties, that goes blissfully quiet. 

It’s almost unnerving. Being able to simply look at another human being without his dark glasses acting as a buffer; not having to worry he’ll see and know too much is such a foreign concept, he can’t even fathom it.

But people like that...something was off about them. Even if Damian couldn’t unintentionally take a peek at their thoughts or emotions with his “Secondary” power, he could somehow still feel them on an instinctual level. It was the way they carried themselves, he mused. It was like the people around them simply flowed around them, like water cut through by a boulder. And they had this air about them, stagnate and ripe with confusion or misery or simmering rage. Like they were only half a person; an after image, maybe.

Mr. Stylish Jacket didn’t really give Damian that impression. He seemed much more animated and solid than other people he’s encountered like that.

He loiters around Damian’s shop as he speaks with a variety of customers, negotiating prices and scheduling repairs. The strange man meanders from shelf to shelf, touching some things and merely looking at others, as if he were a curious ghost haunting the shop. None of Damian’s regulars acknowledges the man, their eyes passing over him as they make casual small-talk with Damian. Damian frowns, puzzled as the man gives him a cheery wave each time their eyes meet (despite his glasses, the man meets his gaze directly every time). 

Eventually there are no more customers to act as Damian’s buffer. The shop falls quiet, with the exception of the low murmuring of the radio by the cash register (always tuned to a local news station), and Damian takes a breath. 

“Alright.” He addresses the man, who stood patiently staring at him from a comfortable distance. “Let’s get this over with. What do you want?”

The man tilts his head a little, like a puppy recognizing a human word. Then he gives Damian a shrug, his hands casually pocketed in his jacket.

“How long have you been here, working at this shop I mean.”

Damian expected him to ask about his hands right away. Maybe he wants to ease into their inevitable conversation, so he doesn’t scare Damian off. Damian can work with that.

“Since I was eighteen. I own this place.”

“Did you grow up in this city?”

“...Yes.”

The man took a step closer to the counter. Then another. Cautiously, as though he were approaching a feral dog. Damian tried not to bristle. 

“You… Can do things.”

“...Yes.”

“It’s…. Alright, you know.” He said, voice measured and soothing. Damian bristled. “We’re the same. Well, sort of.” The man was stopped at the counter, close enough to touch should either of them reach out for the other. Damian stood his ground, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders. 

“And what, exactly, can you do?”

The man grinned. “This.”

He took a step forward and then another, inexplicably, phasing through the counter, until he stood toe-to-toe with Damian - only the top half of his body above his waist line was visible. 

Damian stared.

Stared some more.

Continued staring.

“Well,” he sighed. “Want a drink?”

“You’re fucking with me.” Damian took a quick swig of his beer, staring at Ben with a slight grimace. “Superhuman? That I’ll believe, but ghosts? No fucking way.”

“Come on!” Ben, seated on Damian’s work stool, hung his head, hunching his shoulders, in exaggerated exasperation. “You said so yourself you can’t read my mind or whatever.” He flapped his hand. “And you’re a freaking necromancer! What kind of necromancer doesn’t believe in ghosts?”

“First, I don’t read minds, okay? Second, I am not a necromancer. That sounds ridiculous.”

“You literally brought a dead bird back to life, what do you call that?”

“Magic,” Damian quipped. 

“Necromancy is magic, smartass.”

“Ah ha!” Damian pointed. “If I were a necromancer, I would’ve known that. Case dismissed.”

Ben snorted, straightening his posture and crossing his arms. Damian had closed shop for the day, relocating them to his backroom to speak more comfortably. The beer he offered to Ben was left untouched on the table, cap politely popped for him. Although, apparently, it was a wasted gesture. After an awkward pause Ben revealed his undead status to Damian. He touched briefly on having powers of his own, when he was alive, and his other siblings with abilities (though he didn’t go into specifics or offer any names beside Klaus - who's the only one who can see him).

Damian had discarded his glasses upon retrieving the beers, seeing no point in wearing them as a buffer since he couldn’t “read” Ben anyway. Ben had stuttered over his words for a moment, stuck-dumb at the way they glowed faintly in the light, clearing his throat with a flush when Damian arched an unimpressed brow. 

Naturally, Damian is a private, solitary person. Dave is the only person he’d ever shared his powers with outside his parents. Damian explained his powers in very simplistic terms, not daring to reveal more. There were dark, hidden, things that frightened Damian; he refused to acknowledge them.

The more he and Ben shared with each other, the more surprised Damian became with how at ease Ben made him feel. They traded quips as though they were old friends chatting over brunch. 

It was dangerous.  

Ben grew serious, thoughtful. “You seriously never considered helping people?”

“I do help people. I fix their shit.”

“You know what I mean.”

Damian shrugged, swallowing the last of his beer before gently tossing it in the bin beside his mini fridge. “Nobody needs me to play hero. I’m just an ordinary guy trying to make ends meet. I’m really nothing special.”

Ben opened his mouth, ready to argue against that assertion, when suddenly his face twisted into something strange. “Something’s wrong.”

“What’d you mean?”

But in a blink of an eye, he was gone. 

Damian stared at the empty space Ben had just occupied. "That doesn't prove anything."

Chapter Text

Ben didn't come back.

Although Damian closed shop for the day to speak with Ben, he remained late in the evening fixing several requests that had piled up during the weekend. Once his shoulders started to ache from the tension he decided to call it a day and tidy up before locking up for the night.

He called his dad as he shut off the lights in the backroom. “Yo pops, I’m done at the shop for the night. Gonna swing by to get Zemie. Thanks for pup-sitting. Hm. Uh huh. Yeah.”

He stepped outside, shivering slightly at the chill. His glasses in his coat pocket. “Nah, it’s late. I’ve got some leftovers at home. Hm. Hm. I’ll take you and Ma to lunch, Friday.”

He precariously balanced his phone between his shoulder and ear as he fiddled with the locks. 

“Oh yeah. Can you open shop for me tomorrow morning? I’m going to Dave’s place… Yeah, a broke A.C. unit. Around 10. It’ll probably be an hour… Yes, yes, I’ll make sure to pack my sandwiches. I’m not 12 dad.”

Suddenly a foreboding shiver crawled up his spine. Damian went rigid as his dad continued to speak. A cold sweat broke out on his brow.

He’s being watched. Slowly he lifted his gaze to his reflection.

There, behind him across the street, barely visible in the yellow street light - a boy wearing some kind of school uniform.

The kid’s posture is relaxed, with his hands in his short pockets. He’s alone and, without a doubt, openly staring at Damian.

“Dad, I gotta go.” Damian said slowly, voice low. He ignored his dad’s confusion and slowly reached for his phone to end the call. He didn’t look away from the boy, who shifted his stance as if aware he’s caught Damian’s attention. 

Damian let out a steadying breath. It’s just a kid, but he couldn’t shake this uneasy feeling…

He abruptly spun around to face the boy, his eyes bright, but the boy had vanished without a trace before Damian could set his eyes on him.

“What the fuuuuck …..”

Chapter Text

The city was strange even before the wonderkids made their debut all those years ago. “Paranormal” occurrences or something equally absurd is the norm, earning a sensational spotlight in the local paper or radio show that everyone eats up in a frenzy, but gets pushed to the wayside to make room for the newest celebrity diet fad after a day or two. These days, no one even remotely cares about the so-called “Umbrella Academy” (with the kraken being the exception, but he’s particularly an urban legend at this point). So, like any ordinary citizen in this not so ordinary city, Damian puts the strange incident from last night out of his mind. And without any sign of Ben, he subsequently declares it a fluke. The last thing he needs is Patrick Swayze putting the moves on him while he makes his repairs or being stalked by some wayward child of the corn. 

No, the only thing he needs to focus on right now is fixing this piece of shit A.C. unit for Dave. He’s been working on it for close to thirty minutes, sitting cross legged on the floor, hands placed on either side of the unit, concentrating on the warm tingling of his palms as he tries to locate the source of what’s been causing the dysfunction. Or he would be concentrating if it weren’t for the distracting shrill of a protesting violin being handled by a complete novice right across the hall. Damian has no clue how Dave tolerates the racket; the walls are paper thin.

It really isn’t normally so bad, as many of the violinists' students have quite the talent. Dave finds their lessons to be soothing and can even tell Damian which student is practicing at any given hour simply by the sounds of their tuning. Naturally Damian told him to get a better hobby. 

Damian finally locates the source of the breakage and his shoulders unconsciously relax as his power begins to repair the faulty part. It only takes another ten minutes. After testing out the A.C and its different features for any other kinks he might’ve missed, satisfied with the improvement, he takes out a sandwich as he packs up to leave. He’s so distracted with eating, shouldering his backpack, and texting Dave he’ll leave his house key in his mailbox that he’s completely oblivious to the man stepping out of Dave’s neighbors door across the hall. He roughly shoves into Damian, who startles, whipping around to press his back defensively against Dave’s door, and dropping both his half-eaten sandwich and phone from the jarring movement. The two men stare at each other in shock, but Damian quickly breaks eye-contact (not bothering to have his glasses on when doing his repair - stupid - reckless) kneeling down with a mumbled apology to pick up his spoiled food. The man quickly follows suit with a rushed apology of his own, trying to lighten the awkward interaction. The man is tall and unassuming, with dark hair and even darker eyes. He looks rundown. Damian cuts off his rambling.

“Don’t worry about it.”

He stands, pocketing his phone and awkwardly holding his ruined sandwich, still avoiding the man’s eyes, and tries to discreetly press himself against the wall. To the other man it seems like a timid movement. It makes him seem smaller than he already is and younger too, despite the well-groomed scruff on his face. He makes the mistake of assuming because Damian won’t look him in the eye or shrugs away his hands, he’s unsure of himself - vulnerable, weak-willed, an easy target to snatch up. Damian doesn’t see it, but the other man’s eyes are suddenly chilling and predatory as he takes in Damian’s perceived meekness. 

Making this mistake … could very well cost him his life .  

“I really didn’t mean to startle you,” the man says. “You sure looked spooked.” 

Something about this man suddenly prickles at the nape of Damian’s neck, the skin flushing uncomfortably hot.

Danger Danger Danger Danger!

It’s the same sick feeling he had six years ago … 

“You’re a bit old to be a student s’all.” Damian replies dismissively. “See you.” He steps away to make his escape. The man follows close behind. His smile is tight and his eyes are a little too sharp as he tries to make friendly chit-chat. “Ah well, it’s never too late to learn something new! Vanya thinks I got potential.” 

Flattery definitely pays the bills, Damian thinks. It’s unavoidable they’d be going the same way out the building, but he doesn’t like having this man at his back as he descends the stairs. He feels like he’s being stalked by a hungry predator. It’s a distinct, instinctual feeling he despises . The lights in the stairwell flicker as his agitation grows, but neither man notices. “You been in this building long?” The man asks. Damian tries not to grind his teeth. “No.” He says shortly. 

Only for an hour, he thinks sarcastically.

“Oh. You probably don’t know Vanya all that well then do ya?”

“Guess not.”

The guy’s floundering for something to say, irritated by Damian’s frigid attitude.

“I’m Leonard by the way. We’ll probably be seeing each other for now on.”

Leonard’s irritation started to grow into anger as Damian ignored him, like he’s somehow better than Leonard. Like Leonard is someone’s garbage tossed onto the street no one bats an eye at. Like he’s a nobody. Just because he’s not special like - Just like that cruel old man who told him so, so coldly all those years ago. Damian’s nothing special either. He’s a nobody just like Leonard. How dare he act otherwise.

“Hey,” he suddenly reached for Damian, just as the other man pushed the exit door open. Leonard gripped the muscle of Damian’s upper arm painfully tight, jerking him around so that he’d be forced to face Leonard. “It’s rude to ignore someone when they’re talking to you.”

But all Damian could focus on is the ringing in his ears and the tightness of his chest as a flood of raw, ugly emotions invaded his senses. His chest became tight and his breathing short as the other man continued to spit angrily at him. He’s staring directly into Leonard’s eyes.

He can see - he can see -

The lights overhead flickered erratically, finally catching Leonard’s attention. He looked around in confusion, grip loosening slightly on Damian. It’s all the opening he needed to make his escape. He roughly shoved Leonard away from him, who stumbled with a shout but Damian was gone out the door before he could right himself and catch him.

It’s a mistake coming here to see him. Five knows that. He shouldn’t have gone to see him the night before. But after the shoot out and V’s rejection of his plan, he felt unconsciously compelled to see him. Just for a moment, he promised himself, just make sure he’s okay - that he’s alive. It’ll be enough. 

But it hadn’t been enough. The prosthetic eye mystery has hit a dead-end. Frustrated, he just drove without having any conscious thought of where he needed to head to next. Now he’s parked outside the repair shop the very next day, tuning out Klaus’ inane chatter, as he keeps a sharp lookout. After ten minutes of Klaus recounting a night spent with a hooker, a fiddle, and two dozen oranges in excruciating detail - Five spotted a man walking briskly down the street, headed for the shop. His hair is a dark, healthy brown, but Five knows without a doubt it’s him. Despite his dark shades, he appears distressed as he rushes into the store. Five watches intently as he awkwardly greets the few customers inside who’re on their way out, excusing himself into his backroom as an elderly man (his father, Five realizes) follows anxiously close behind. Impulsively, Five climbs out of the car - rudely slamming the door shut in Klaus’ face when they ask where he’s going. 

Five hesitates at the door, hand ready to push it open, but he can’t bring himself to move as he glares at his reflection. What would he even say? Klaus catches up to him, huffing. 

“What’re we doing here Five? Does Mr. Fix-it cause the apocalypse or something? I could totally see it, you know. Even though he’s handsome he’s got a terrible attitude. Seems like a total misanthrope. It’s always the quiet ones you should watch out for -”

“Shut up Klaus,” Five grumbles, but without any real heat. He takes a deep breath. He enters the shop.

“I’m fine, pops. Just a little… out of it.”

“You’re not fine Damian! Please just take a breath. Sit down-”

“I have work to do.”

“That can wait. Something obviously happened…”

“Nothing happened. I just. It’s just stress. It’ll pass.”

“It’s not nothing, Damian. I haven’t seen you like this since -”

Damian slammed his fist down onto his work table, shaking it violently, stunning his father into shocked silence. Not once has Damian ever acted violently towards him or his mother, not even so much as raising his voice when he was an angsty teenager. As much as he hates to admit to being wary of his son's abilities, he’s never once truly feared him.

“Damian …”

Until now.

The lights flickered ominously. 

“You’ve got to stop worrying about me, dad. You should know better by now.” Damian relaxed his hand and drew it back to his side. He angled his head towards his father, but kept his eyes cast to the floor. His tone was much softer than before - bitter and resigned. His heart ached for his son. As soon as he and his wife came to terms with Damian’s powers, he insisted they were a blessing. And he believed it, for a while. But it’s become clear how draining they are. It’s a burden his son shouldn't have to bear, least of all alone - but his son is so terrified of himself, he won’t let anyone, not even his own parents, near him. He can see how scared his son is and it breaks his heart knowing he can’t help him.

Damian sucks in a shuddering breath. “You should know by now,” he repeats, “that no one can hurt me …”

Because he would kill them, if they tried.

His father hears the promise without him verbalizing it.

It doesn’t comfort him. 

Klaus obnoxiously taps on the bell at the front desk. It takes a minute, but an older man with deep worry lines, old fashioned glasses, and watery brown eyes hobbles out of the side door leading to the backroom. He casts a wary eye over them. Klaus wiggles their fingers at him and Five attempts a polite smile.

The man clears his throat. “Sorry gentlemen, but we’re about to close-”

Five schools his expression to appear more boyish and nonthreatening. “We only need a moment of your-”

Klaus butts in with an airy wave of their hand. “Damian and I go way back. Why don’t you be a dear and fetch him for us, hm? I’d love to pick up our conversation from the other day.”

“You know Damian?” The old man questioned skeptically. Klaus nodded earnestly. “Oh yes, we went to college together! We were quite close, but sadly lost touch.” Five shot Klaus a sharp glance. Even if the backstory is bullshit, how did they know this man hadn't been Damian?

The old man still seemed uncertain, turning away to glance back at the side door. “Even so… I don’t think now’s a good time. I could write down your information - ”

“It’s alright dad. I know them.” Came Damian’s muffled voice from behind the door. “Send them in and close down the shop while you're at it. I’ll pick up Zemel later.”

The man’s lips thinned, but he nodded to himself. With another glance at the brothers he ambled toward the front entrance and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED before exiting out onto the sidewalk, presumably heading home. 

Five turned to Klaus, voice low. “You’ve met Damian before.”

“I told you he has a bad attitude. Do you know Damian?”

“...We’ve met. Well, not this version.” Five replied cryptically as he pushed open the swinging door. It took everything he had to keep his face blank when sees Damian hunched over his worktable, beer in one hand and head in the other. He just looks so… defeated in a way Five has never seen him. He’d always been the stronger of the two of them, forging ahead despite the grief trying to weigh him down. Even until the very end.

He didn’t even have his glasses on. 

He turned his head towards them, eyes cast down.

“Where’s Ben?”

Chapter Text

“I don’t believe this. We’ve met once and you’re already playing favorites!”

Klaus pouted. And really, a pout shouldn’t look so endearing on an adult but they pull it off somehow. Their skin has a healthier glow than before, and the skin beneath their pretty eyes aren’t nearly as dark from exhaustion. If it weren’t for the drying blood down the side of their temple, Damian would’ve said they actually look like a functional human being.

“I guess it doesn’t matter where Casper’s at.” Damian sighs, really not in the mood. He rubs his temple, gesturing for Klaus to come closer, as he slides off his stool. “Sit your ass down, would ya? Let me take a look at that head of yours.” 

Klaus merely stares at him, not understanding. When they don't move Damian frowns and walks over. He gently grasps at the puffy floral button-up they're wearing and with an insistent pull he gets Klaus to take his stool. “Nice shirt.” Damian compliments in a mumble, completely sincere. “It suits you.” 

“Oh uh. Danke! It really brings out my eyes don’t’cha think?” Klaus bats their eyes playfully. They really don't expect Damian to suddenly make direct eye contact, when the shorter man says: “It really does.” They're struck dumb by the way his eyes seem to gleam in the light - almost like a cats, but Damian’s moved on to inspect the cut on their head from that snow globe they smashed it on, seemingly oblivious to the light flush to Klaus’ cheeks. 

"Today a good or bad day?"

Klaus blinks. "Uhh... good I guess. I mean I'm being looked over by a rather dashing man after all."

Damian rolled his eyes. "I was asking about your pronouns today. You're a terrible flirt."

"Oh! He/Him is fine darling."

"Glad we got that cleared up." Damian raises his hand like he’s going to touch Klaus’ jaw to angle his head better, but he hesitates. For the first time, Damian flicks a quick glance to Five, who’s openly staring at him with an unreadable expression. “I’m assuming Ben told you about me.” He didn’t look surprised in the slightest that Damian knew of Ben or that he talked to him.

“Hm. Yes. He’s told me some very interesting things, but I’ll believe your necromancy prowess when I see it for myself.” 

Damian snorted. “I’m not a necromancer.”

“Trust me, handsome. It takes one to know one.”

Damian shook his head, exasperated, not interested in debating about it further. “I can..” He licked his lips nervously. “I can fix that cut for you, if you want. But I’ll have to touch you.”

“Oh darling,” Klaus purred, closing the space between them. “I can’t wait to see what it's like to have your magic hands on me.”

Five rolled his eyes, shifting to lean against the wall, hands comfortably pocketed. “Don’t feel the need to baby him. It’s not a serious injury. He only has himself to blame anyway.”

Damian turned towards Five with a deep frown. “Head injuries are always serious, until you know what you're dealing with.” 

Five blinked. He felt unexpectedly chastised at being on the receiving end of Damian's disapproval. Klaus glanced between the two. He smiled, trying to break the sudden tension. “Don’t pay any attention to Five. He always gets grouchy when he hasn’t been put down for his afternoon nap.”

“You’re not very good with kids are you?” Klaus teased. “That’s not a deal breaker, just so you know.”

“He yours, then?” Damian asked gruffly. Moving away to rummage through a draw at his work table. He took out a single black, leather glove, casting another dismissive glance at Five as he smoothly put it on. “Or are you just babysitting?”

“I’m his brother,” Five cut in. “And I’m the babysitter in this scenario.”

Klaus stuck his tongue out at Five, who only smirked. Damian raised a brow, somewhat amused by the exchange. He gently cupped the line of Klaus’ jaw with his gloved hand, angling his head under the light. “I need you to focus on what I’m saying Klaus. If I touch you… It’s like I’m taking a peek at things, emotions, stuff that’s private.”

Klaus just looked at him. Then, he suddenly snatched Damian’s uncovered wrist, who flinched, and brought his exposed hand against his temple. Damian grit his teeth at the prickling sensation of Klaus. It smothered his senses like a thick smog of herbal incense. The only clear thing Damian could make out was a steady thrum of - curious curious - with a barely there sour note of - lonely

Damian took a deep breath, curling his thumb, ring finger, and pinkie into his palm. “This won’t hurt."

It was an odd sensation. Klaus couldn’t really put it into words. Damian’s fingers began to heat up unnaturally, to an almost scalding degree, but evened out into something… soothing - not unlike the sensation of a hot towel. Klaus closed his eyes in pleasure, wanting to sink into the experience. But it was over just like that, Damian hastily removing himself from Klaus’ space. 

“How’s that?”

“Guess you really are one of us.” Klaus said, amazed as he poked around his temple for the non-existent wound. There wasn’t even any scarring.

“I’m not,” Damian started to bite out, before he exhaled sharply. “It’s not the same.” He mumbled, taking a swig of beer. His hair caught the light in a strange way, barely noticeable strands of silver interwoven with his natural brown. Five is the only one watching Damian closely enough to notice. 

Klaus turned to Five. “How’d daddy dearest not snatch him up?”

“Oh he tried.” Five snorted, with a mean little smirk. “But the Delgado's weren’t exactly keen on giving up the child they’ve always wanted and just adopted.” Five says, dismissively, casually. Like that kind of information is known outside Damian’s family and is old news.

Klaus jumped at the loud sound of glass roughly bumping against solid wood. He swiveled around to see an intense expression on Damian’s face directed at Five. “How the fuck did you know I was adopted? Did… did that man tell you?” Klaus’s eyebrows scrunched up at the scathing tone Damian took when referring to their father. 

Five took a measured breath. “No.” He said. He looked… kind of sad. “You told me. Over forty years ago, when we were trapped in the Apocalypse together.”

Chapter Text

Five discovered Damian’s body after a week stuck in that post-apocalyptic future. He’d seen a lot of dead bodies: some half crushed under rubble like his siblings, others near unrecognizable; the only thing left were dried smears of blood and splintered bone. Organs picked through by rats and insects, flesh left to rot beneath the searing sun. Clouds of black flies billowed from particularly populated areas, the stench suffocating his nose and choking him as it coated the back of his throat. He’d never seen a body like Damian’s - inexplicably  and unnaturally pristine. He merely laid amongst the rubble, splintered wood and shattered glass piled high around him, as though some kind of invisible bubble kept him safe from the collapsing building he’d been in. He was curled into himself as if sleeping. A small dog was wrapped protectively in his arms, watching Five warily, tag wagging mildly. The dog’s stomach and hindleg was covered in dry blood, wiry fur stuck together as if he rolled around in glue. 

Five teleported into the space, startling the dog into standing with raised hackles. It barked at him. The sound was incredibly jarring and surreal. Five had been wandering the desolate city for a week looking for any sign of life only to be met with grim silence. A hysterical giggle threatened to spill out of him. The man did not wake from the racket his dog was making; didn’t so much as twitch. Five slowly lowered to the ground to seem as non-threatening as possible. “Hey boy,” he coaxed. His voice felt so scratchy. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.” 

The dog didn’t budge, but it stopped barking at the sound of his voice. Its fur was still raised along its spine, but it wasn’t growling either. “Yeah, I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you.” Five cautiously inched towards the dog and the man. Eventually he was kneeling right by the man, daring to pet the dog between the ears. The dog accepted his gentle touch, fur settling down, as it licked the underside of Five’s wrist. Five smiled, before turning his attention once more to the still body next to him. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Five would’ve written him off as another corpse. Other than his bone-white hair, which didn’t match his youth, there was this... unnaturalism about the man.

Like Snow-white, Five thought faintly. Put under a spell. 

He tried waking the man by shaking him. Five shouted at him and shook him, but the man just laid there. There were no mortal gashes or broken bones, despite all the blood staining his clothes. He was completely uninjured. When Five gingerly inspected the dog next, prodding for a wound, he found nothing - not even a scab. He sat there, stumped. How was it possible? It was impossible …

Five sat there for a long time, waiting for any sign of consciousness.

But there was nothing.

Five wakes to the mysterious man staring at him from the makeshift, rickety stretcher Five’s been dragging his comatose body around in - some three weeks later. Zemel is in his arms, licking the underside of his chin as the man rubs soothing fingers down the dogs wiggling back. His eyes are an eerie brownish-red, that glow in the early light of dawn, like embers from a dying fire; his hair a halo of white light. Five watches him back warily, subtly positioning his walking stick protectively in front of him. The man’s lip twitched.

You don’t belong here, little boy.

This is how Five came to know Damian’s terror. A vicious, predatory thing Damian had kept locked away deep within himself, allowing it to fester and poison him rather than willing to let it consume him and those around him. 

It would become the very thing that saves Five’s life. 

The terror wasn’t always present. Apparently Five wasn’t very thrilling to play with because of his youth. It’d be like torturing a puppy, Damian attempted to translate with a disgusted grimace. Damian avoided the subject and chose to suffer in silence when the terror was particularly restless and wanted out. He kept his distance from Five on those nights, wanting to protect him. Five insisted he can take care of himself. It’s what he’s been trained for by his father. Anytime he mentioned Sir Reginald or his strict training Damian always had a complicated look on his face, before he sighed and schooled his expression into something more… parental, if Five was hard pressed to describe it.

“You’re not a soldier, Five. You’re a kid. Your father should’ve known better.” 

“Father certainly knew better when it came to time travel.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t know anymore than you do. Doesn’t matter much now, does it? You’ll find your back, to your own time. You're stubborn like that.”

There was nothing left for them in the city.

Damian had kneeled at the destruction of his parents home for a long time, eyes completely dry but the terror humming just beneath the surface. The ground tremored, shifting piles of rubble and dust. Five held onto Zemel protectively from a distance, watching as the air itself seemed to ripple and distort like one of those surrealist paintings his father insisted they prepare extensive critiques on so they could ‘find order in the chaos’ or whatever. Any remaining survivors turned on each other quickly and violently. It’d become too dangerous for them to stay and try to maintain some sort of shelter. It was the perfect feeding ground for the terror and that put more strain on Damian as he tried to keep it in-check. They didn’t have any idea where else to go, but decided simply being on the move was better than nothing. 

Damian reminded Five of Ben in many ways - afraid of their own power; keeping dark, incomprehensible secrets within themselves. It had been quite the revelation for them both to discover they shared the same birthday (to the exact day and year), the same circumstance of birth, and that (technically) Five was supposed to be in his thirties like Damian. 

“Yes, well. What you’re meant to be doesn’t change the fact that you’re still thirteen.” Damian quipped, gently rebuffing Five whenever he wanted to take on dangerous situations by himself. 

Damian never thought seriously about having children or looking for a partner. He felt fulfilled at that point in his life and that he’d have time down the road to really consider it. It was never explicitly said between them, but Damian took on a fatherly role with Five almost immediately upon officially meeting each other. He felt responsible for Five. He tried to protect him, comfort him, and encourage him to stay strong and sharp. He didn’t sugarcoat anything, but he wasn’t cold like Sir Reginald. He didn’t belittle Five or expect him to blindly follow his instruction. Or use him like some kind of tool to combat the evils of the world.  

Damian treated him like an equal. Asked for his input. He trusted him and his abilities. He respected his intelligence and was compassionate when he faltered. For the first time in Five’s young life, it felt like he could just… be. No more competing for Sir Reginald's affections (which he’ll never give) or striving for some impossible standard of perfection. Being with Damian helped prevent the loneliness Five felt from completely slipping through the cracks and sending him spiraling. He missed his siblings deeply. He was determined to get back to them, but the apocalypse would’ve been a lot worse without Damian by his side.

Damian was good for Five. He was Five’s father in every way Sir Reginald wasn’t or ever could be.

Five liked to think he was good for Damian as well. 

After a year of surviving together, Damian is killed.

They were taking a shortcut through an alley. Damian always took the lead, keeping a sharp eye out for traps or loose rubble. Five still doesn’t understand how it could’ve happened. The buildings flanking either side of them were as sturdy as any they’d seen. They’d assessed the risks and found none. The area was completely deserted. 

It was a total fluke. 

Damian was the first to notice something was off. Terror acted like a watchdog. He stopped short when they were halfway through. Before Five could say anything the ground began to shake. The buildings shivered and moaned as glass cracked above them. 

The buildings’ are collapsing.

Five only had a split second to meet Damian’s eyes, his strange eyes glowing brightbrighterbrighterbrighter as the air began to crack and split like an electrical current. Five’s body shuddered as he instinctively charged his powers, ready to teleport to Damian. He could reach him. There was still time. He had to reach him-

There wasn’t enough time.

Damian reached out his hand with a frantic shout of Five’s name, a small but powerful invisible weight pushed Five farther away, sharp and biting like a frigid gale, sending him off his feet and soaring through the air. Instinctively he held Zemel closer to his chest, uncaring for a moment if the tight embrace hurt the small dog. His body curled into itself and he closed his eyes, his muscles seized up, subconsciously preparing for an impact. He and Zemel landed roughly across the street, rolling and kicking up dirt, a considerable and safe distance away from the alley. The ground trembled violently as the buildings collapsed into each other, a horrifying and deafening clash of brick and glass, completely burying the alley they were traveling through. Five was blinded by the dust billowing out from the collapse, he hacked and spat, his throat completely closing up even though he desperately tried to call out to Damian. 

But Damian… Damian was gone. 

Before the dust could even settle, Five put Zemel down and teleported to the rubble. He fell to his knees and frantically began lifting brick after brick, trying to dig Damian out. It was pointless. He kept at it until darkness had fallen, his hands sore and bloody, and his face caked in dust, snot, and tears. Eventually he collapsed from sheer grief and exhaustion. 

Five was once more alone, in this hellish future. 

Damian would’ve wanted Five to keep moving. To stay stagnant meant he’d meet a quicker end. But Five just sat by the rubble, staring into space. Damian was all that Five had left. He was… Damian is his family. 

Zemel wasn’t in a much better state. He whined and whined and whined as he pawed at the rubble. He too, eventually, just curled by the rubble - as if waiting for Damian to just crawl out of the dust with that sheepish smile of his and reassure them everything’s going to be alright. Five shook himself back to reality, determined to move on because that’s what Damian would’ve wanted. More than anything, he would’ve wanted Five to survive; to not carry the weight of the dead. He tried to take Zemel with him, but the dog refused to leave Damian’s grave. When Five picked him up, he snarled and bit him. So, Five left him with Damian. 

He left that alley, that city, and didn’t look back. 

A week later he picked up Vanya’s book. A week after that, he met Dolores. 

Forty years pass … And  the Handler offers him a job. 

Chapter Text

The cool breeze felt refreshing out on Damian’s balcony. He relaxed against the railing, just allowing himself to breathe for a moment in order to clear his head and center himself. Five stood beside him, idly sipping on the coffee Damian made for him, staring at the city lights which sparkled like stars in the darkness. Klaus is passed out on Damian’s couch, an empty chip bag clutched in one hand, crumbs dirtying his nice shirt and peppering his goatee. 

“None of them believe you, do they? Your siblings.”

Five shrugged, leaning against the railing, hands carefully holding the mug over the edge.

“You don’t believe me either. All you have to do is look, Damian.”

“No, Five. I’m not. I’m not in a good place right now to use that power.”

Five turned to him, concerned. “Something happened. You’re agitated.”

Damian scoffed lightly. “You mean other than meeting a ghost and a time traveler who says the world’s gonna end soon? I think that would irritate anyone.”

Five merely raised his eyebrows, expected. Damian felt the weird sensation of being on the receiving end of his father’s disapproving stare down he was often subjected to as a teenager. It was almost comical on a thirteen year old's face. 

Damian relented. “It’s really nothing. Some guy just got a little too handsy and I ended up seeing something I shouldn’t have. Scared me a little. I thought I’d…” 

“Lose control? Hurt him?”

Damian felt as vulnerable as he did six years ago. Lost and free falling without anyone to steady him. “You must be psychic. How do you know so much about my powers?”

“Because I know you, Damian. You saved my life. You’re-” Five abruptly cut himself off. He turned his face to conceal it in shadow. His eyes stung and his throat felt tight with emotion. 

“If you really did meet me in the future… That wasn’t me. I’m sorry, Five. Truly. It’s obvious you cared deeply for that person and they you, but I’m not them-,”

“You were attacked.”

Damian’s mouth clicks shut, stunned into silence as Five continues. “Six years ago, you were attacked by a customer in your shop. You’ll never know why. Because he was killed. Your terror killed him.” Five looked straight into Damian’s eyes. “You held his body until the police came. Officially he died of self-inflicted wounds. You weren’t charged with anything. It was the first time you ever truly lost control. The first time that voice in your head -”

“Stop. Stop. Just… Please. Don’t say anything else. I get it alright?” It felt like Damian’s chest had just been torn right open. The horrific memories of that day - the screaming and the confusion and the terror, as a stranger rampaged through his shop and assaulted him. The image of that stranger raking his nails down his own face over and over again, spitting blood as he shrieked at Damian to stop hurting him. The sickening thrill of the voices in his head growing louder and louder -

“Damian. Damian. You’re okay. Breathe with me. Just breathe.”

Somehow Damian ended up backed into a corner of his balcony, hugging his knees, Five kneeling before him. Five was touching his face, staring directly into his eyes. He continued to talk to Damian in soothing tones, instructing him, but Damian could hardly focus on his words. Five’s memories unfolded within his mind: fragments of his childhood, the strict training, the thrill of fighting off bank robbers, the stress of maintaining perfection, and his sympathy and admiration for V; the despair and confusion upon finding the bodies of his adult siblings in a desolate future; memories of Damian, with white hair and reddish brown eyes like some kind of specter, who protected him and taught him like the father he should’ve had -

“Fuck me, you really are from the future. A future. Jesus Christ.”

Five leaned away from him with a wiry smirk. “Told you all you had to do is look.”

“Okay. Okay. So uh, potential apocalyptic future. Uh Cool. Super cool. Very cool. I can deal with that. Yeah.”

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY

ADDRESS: WEST DENTON AVENUE APT 302 

TARGET: DAMIAN DELGADO

STATUS: TERMINATION 

FIELD NOTES: DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE. AVOID EYE CONTACT.

Five leaves early the next morning. He doesn’t go into much detail, only saying something about setting up surveillance on a potential lead and that he’ll probably return late in the evening, teleporting away before Damian could get a word in. To which Damian thinks he’s somehow acquired a thirteen year old (“I’m in my fifties, Damian.”) and his “I see dead people'' brother (“May I remind you, you can also see dead people, Damian dearest.”) as two very unwanted couch crashers. Klaus content to eat all of Damian’s food and Five casually setting up his base of operations in Damian’s study - both of whom do not have jobs and therefore will not help pay rent.

At least Zemie is getting something out of it, Damian thinks as he spots his (traitorous) dog sprawled all over Klaus, who continues to snore obnoxiously on his couch, long limbs tangled up in the blanket Damian covered him with the night before. With a roll of his eyes, Damian starts puttering around his kitchen, determined to maintain his morning routine despite his unexpected guest. He’s pouring his fourth pancake batter when he hears sleepy groaning behind him. He turns to see Klaus seat himself at Damian’s table, clearly still half-asleep and being led by the smell of breakfast. “Ugh. You’re one of those people, dearest. This is an ungodly hour.”

“Klaus,” Damian shakes his head, flipping the pancake. “It’s almost noon.”

“Ugh.”

Damian chuckles, endeared despite himself. He plates the pancake, turning once more to ask Klaus if he’d like some bacon -

Someone’s here. 

Damian’s eyes flash as he snaps his attention to his front door. A split second later and with a BANG! the door is violently kicked open, wood splintering across the room. Damian doesn’t have enough time to process what’s happening before he sees a pink bobblehead-like animal head enter his apartment, an assault rifle aimed at his chest. Klaus is wide awake, pushing away from the table, shouting Damian’s name as Damian’s body is jolted, twice, knocking him to the floor. It feels like all of this is happening in slow motion, barely registering his head cracking against the wood flooring. His ears are ringing as the pink bobblehead figure looms over him, he can hardly draw breath - wheezing shallowly as blood pools onto the floor beneath him. He watches as Klaus is manhandled by pink bobbleheads accomplice, Klaus frantically trying to fight off the strong grip and staring at Damian with desperate, panicked eyes as they push him out into the hall. 

Damian draws one more, wheezing breath… Bang!

TERMINATION FIELD REPORT - Cha-Cha

TARGET: DAMIAN DELGADO

STATUS: DECEASED

FIELD NOTES: KLAUS HARGREEVES APPREHENDED ON SCENE FOR INFORMATION EXTRACTION

Chapter Text

Entry #57 02/12/1994

Another disastrous attempt at persuasion! This child has an extraordinary ability, but her adoptive parents refuse to be swayed. It’s clear they don’t understand the implications of raising such a child, but I shall put this pursuit to rest for now and simply observe the child’s growth from a distance.

#00.08 Field Report #13 10/20/2001

Subject’s power demonstrates greater depth than previously anticipated. In addition to restoring objects to pristine condition, Subject also demonstrates ability to bring the dead back to life! However, it is not without consequences, as Subject appears to have fallen into a “death-like” state immediately after healing a dead bird.

• White hair
• Warm to touch but no heartbeat
• 3:45 p.m. 

8:05 p.m. Subject has finally awoken from self-induced coma. Subject reportedly lacks coherent memory of incident. Hair color back to natural brown.

• Possible immortality? (further experiments needed)
• Could Subject bring back a human? (further experiments needed)
• Unknown if Subject is capable of communing with the dead as #00.04 

#00.08 Field Report #36 06/17/2005

Subject appears to have developed a secondary ability, much like #00.02. Secondary power appears to induce psychosis when Subject maintains prolonged eye-contact with another. Several interviews have also established additional aspects of this ability, such as: hypnosis, empathy through touch, intuition, & mind reading (only through eye contact). Subject has exceptional potential, but I fear it will not be allowed to fully mature as the subject's parents continue to refuse to take my calls or invite me in for tea. 

• Conflicting reports on color of Subject’s eyes

#00.08 Field Test #5 11/06/2013

Immense demonstration of power!

Subject has shown to be level-headed, practical, and astute - qualities severely lacking in his academy counterparts, however when under extreme duress Subject becomes violent, sadistic, with excessive use of force in order to subdue their attacker. This radical change of behavior suggests a split personality of sorts, triggered by sheer terror. This personality has likely laid dormant or at the very least been kept under strict restraint, however this traumatic event has likely given it the shock it needs to take control. Only after attacker passed out from shock did Subject regain control and awareness - appearing greatly distraught by what he has done. This incident could be my chance to approach Subject for in-person study & offer him the guidance he so desperately needs in order to understand this power. Better to have such a volatile personality under strict surveillance. Such a shame I could not nurture this power from Subject’s infancy. 

• Volatile personality’s lack of remorse similar to #00.07
• Possibly stronger than academy 

Entry#357 12/17/2013

Evidently #00.08 has socially inherited his parents' rude & ungrateful attitude. His behavior was ill-tempered to the point of outright hostility. Within 10 minutes of attempted conversation, #00.08 bluntly expressed that I “fuck off”. 

Note: Lights within Subject’s shop began flickering & air became constricting as Subject’s agitation heightened. It appears he no longer has the disciplined self control he demonstrated prior to incident. It would appear Subject is a lost cause. I shall continue surveillance of Subject to insure civilians are safe, but I shall cease any further study of #00.08

Folded within the pages of the journal, is an old advertisement yellowed from age. It reads:

WE’LL FIX ANYTHING. FROM ELECTRONICS AND APPLIANCES TO EVERYDAY ITEMS. ALL AT AN AFFORDABLE PRICE. NO REQUEST IS TOO BIG OR UNUSUAL TO HANDLE. COME RIGHT ON IN!

DAMIAN’S REPAIR SHOP

EAST 10TH STREET 78903

Chapter Text

The City is a strange place.

Dorothy learned to accept this at a young age, just like everyone else born and raised within it. Those umbrella kids didn’t make the city any stranger than it already was before their debut, but it certainly made life a little more exciting. But it didn’t last. They’re popularity eventually fizzled away after a few years, especially when one of them mysteriously disappeared and that little one died (what was their name?), and the City moved on. There was no drastic change, crime remained relatively the same - tragic and mundane in equal measure. Dorothy will always be grateful to them though, more than she ever would be towards the police. She’d never been as terrified as she was during that bank robbery, but she certainly would lap up the attention and sympathy from her co-workers all over again if she could. They’d long since gotten bored of her story and turned their gossip to more current news: like the latest mugging in Jessica’s neighborhood or the latest make-up trend of some celebrity on the red carpet. She, too, seemed to fade into the background. Her co-workers went back to empty pleasantries as they no longer invited her to lunch and she went back to filing reports and counseling grieving loved ones who’ve come to identify the body of their brother, husband, daughter, and so on.

For the next twenty years she would live this way, unremarkable and unbothered by the world. 

She was on her lunch break when Antonio, the Chief Medical Examiner’s assistant, poked his head into the break room and announced they had a ‘live one’, a victim of a shooting. Dorothy smiled, attempting to subtly dab at the coffee stain on her blouse and straighten her skirt. Antonio was the youngest of the coroners’ and certainly the handsomest, with a crooked nose and dark brown eyes that often shone with good humor. The Chief was away for the birth of his fourth child and Antonio wants Dorothy to assist him in taking notes while he performs the autopsy. It was a great show of trust by the Chief allowing Antonio to perform one without his supervision.

Dorothy's chest grew tight and warm as she eagerly followed him back to the body. He could’ve asked anyone to assist him, but he went out of his way to look for her help.

Antonio chatted casually as they walked to the examination room, telling her that he couldn’t shake this weird feeling when the body first came in. For one thing, their hair was as white as snow. It was the most natural looking dye job he’s ever seen. For another, there was this stillness that didn’t feel quite like death, which is an odd thing to say he knows, but he felt tense; almost as if they would suddenly come alive as he reached for them. Dorothy giggled, Antonio made it sound like they were in some bad 80s horror movie. Like they’re going to be the first victims of a zombie apocalypse. 

Antonio chuckled with her as he pushed open the double doors to the examination room, eyes landing on the exam table where his current body was left, but suddenly stopped short with an odd look on his face. Dorothy looked around at the empty room, sterile and completely ordinary. Neither noticed a figure with white hair slipping into the hall from a door behind them (a supply closet with extra scrubs) adjusting their stolen clothes and casually walking out into the busy street.

The light of the stars seemed to stretch into pointed spears as Five swayed back and forth in Luther’s arms. He stared up at them whimsically, remembering a brighter, moonless night sky in a different time. He and Damian skipping and dancing around a bonfire, as sparks ascended into the heavens and then into nothingness, drinking zealously from an unearthed bottle of rum they’d found earlier that day. They regaled each other with stories of long, forgotten gods and dramatic adventures from children's tales. Hooting and hollering and singing deep into the night, surrounded by broken buildings and whispers of a dead society. The spinning and heaviness of his head was similar as he looked up at Luther. He burped, gently running his palm over Delores back in a soothing gesture as she slept.

“If you vomit on me -,” Luther threatened.

“You know what’s funny?” Five asked, ignoring him. “I’m going through puberty, twice!” He chuckles softly, sighs. “I drank that whole bottle, didn’t I? Damian’s gonna be mad. I’m not supposed to drink the whole bottle by myself. But that’s what you do, when the world you love goes bye-bye. Poof, it’s gone. Just like last time. Only Damian’s gonna be gone just like everybody else... Delores always said I drink too much. That I get surly… She would’ve liked Damian. Damian would’ve been my Best Man.”

Luther and Diego shared a look. “Who the hell’s Damian?” Diego whispered over Five’s head. Luther shrugged, mouthing that he doesn’t know.

“What were you guys talking about again?” Five asked, snuggling closer to Delores, ready for a nap.

“The academy was attacked last night,” Luther starts. “By two people in weird masks. Looking for you. Know anything about that?”

“They said they have Klaus.” Diego finished. “We have no idea where they're holding him.” 

“Klaus… Klaus is with Damian.” Five slurred. “Damian wouldn’t let anyone hurt Klaus. He’s too powerful. More powerful than any of us-”

“Focus, Five!” Luther shook him a little, making him queasy. “Who are they?”

“Hazel and Cha-Cha,” Five grumbled. “The best of the best! I’m the exception of course.”

“The best at what?” Diego snapped impatiently. Five gave him an eerie little smile. “Do you know how many people I’ve killed? I’m the fourth freaking horseman!” He declared, before promptly vomiting over Luther’s shoulder, to his brother’s mortification. 

“Jesus Christ, let’s just get him to my place so he can sleep this off.” Diego sighed, continuing to lead the way. Only Luther was close enough to hear Five’s miserable muttering as they walked out of the alley. “Damian is gone but he’s here but he’s gone. He’ll never be my Damian. My Damian. He would know what to do. My Damian. He’s brave. But this Damian, he’s just so broken. He's just like me.”

Klaus wondered if this is what it was like for Damian too, the buzzing of overlapping voices drilling holes into his brain like vicious wasps, the knowing… knowing too much, seeing too much - Klaus just drowned it all out with his drugs. Kept himself on a constant high, which blurred out the edges of reality. Muting the voices, the despair and anger and confusion, and protecting him from the chilled hands of the dead from gripping at him and pulling him down into the muck of death. Damian didn’t seem like a user, didn’t even have a drop of liquor at his place (Klaus checked); not a single cigarette to take the edge off.

Klaus couldn’t understand it. Damian is scared just like the rest of them, scared of others, of himself.

But he’s dead now… No need to be afraid of anything anymore.

Klaus sniffed, his bloody nose throbbing, flexing his bruised hands against the wood of the chair those psychos tied him to. When the last of the drugs had drained out of his system onto the hands furiously beating against his flesh, spraying onto his captors sharp-looking suits and the moldy motel carpet, and the dead began to ebb and flow around him like a rip tide - Klaus attempted to sharpen his focus, searching for Damian. He grasps clumsily for the thread of his power, buried deep beneath his drugs of refuge and withdrawal, concentrating on Damian - the shape of his face, the line of his shoulders, his dark glasses and dark hair, and his exasperated little smile that felt so mothering when he humored Klaus’ antics; allowing him to eat his food and sleep on his couch. Klaus felt a painful twist in his heart and his eyes burned from unshed tears.

Focus! Focus! Focus!

Just like Ben encouraged him to with that Russian grandma. And all the other victims of those bobble-head twins. 

He stopped trying to understand and control his powers a long time ago, when he was a teenager, and life like one big half-assed joke. Klaus could picture the stern line of Sir Reginald’s mouth as he harrumphed at the state he’s found himself in, peering at him through his monocle, and tapping Klaus’ bruised ribs with his cane. ‘Pitiful child’, he’d scold. ‘Years of training and experiments wasted. Can’t even summon a single spirit!’

Klaus lost his focus, sitting back and rolling his head to the side in defeat, sweating from pain and exertion. He groaned through the tape over his mouth, vaguely listening as the bobble-head twins bickered in the bathroom. Their victims silently watched as he began to struggle again, moving closer to the door. He sees a shadow pass the window. He yells through the tape, but the shadow continues down the hall. In desperation, Klaus begins to bang his head against the wooden table by the door.

Please. Please. Please!

The hopelessness begins to set in again when the door clicks open. A woman, with stern features, cautiously enters the room. “Are you Diego's brother?” She quickly sets him free from the chair. “I’m Detective Patch.”

The bathroom door opens, yellow light spilling into the dark room. Hazel pokes out his head. Patch doesn’t hesitate. She fires at him, roughly shoving Klaus to the ground before he could get a word in. He quickly spots a vent by the bed and crawls to it, ignoring his cuts and bruises as the carpet harshly rubs against his naked chest. As Patch barks orders at Hazel, Klaus wrestles the vent shade loose, pausing only for a moment at the black briefcase hidden within it, before pushing it further down the vent and squirming in after it. 

Klaus has made decent headway through the vent when he hears a single gunshot. He can only hope it was aimed at Hazel.

Cha-Cha stands in the hallway, lowering her gun. She watches as Hazel collects himself before looking to the vent Klaus has escaped through.

This is an absolute clusterfuck. Cha-Cha thinks.

“He escaped.” Hazel states pointlessly. “He took the briefcase,” Cha-Cha snaps. 

“This is an absolute clusterfuck,” Hazel says. Both ignore the body of the detective, stepping out into the dark hallway.

“He couldn’t have gotten far.”

Neither notice as a lone figure, draped in shadow, walks towards them from down the opposite hallway. Their pace is unhurried. They didn’t even flinch at the sound of gunfire. Reddish brown eyes gleaming from the dark, like a predator about to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

Hazel runs off ahead of Cha-Cha, in pursuit of Klaus and their briefcase. She starts to follow, when an eerie, distorted voice speaks not far behind her. 

Someone's been a naughty puppy dog.

A shiver of fear runs down Cha-Cha’s spine. She killed her fear a long time ago. But this… this was primal. Like a mouse hypnotized by the wide maw of the snake about to devour it. She swiveled in her heels and aimed her gun. She didn’t allow her grip to loosen but her eyes betrayed her shock.

“I shot you.”

It was undoubtedly the same man she gunned down yesterday, despite his white hair and reddish-brown eyes that seemed to glow unnaturally in the dark.

The same body, maybe, but not the same...person, Cha-Cha realizes. Cha-Cha swallowed. The look in this - thing’s eyes didn’t feel human. It was like Damian’s body had been possessed by a vengeful spirit or a demon.

Its expression suddenly twisted into an almost sadistic glee. 

Puppy dog… It purred. We've come to give you back your bullets.

Chapter Text

You don’t just misplace a dead body.

After its apparent disappearance, Antonio became frantic, borderline hysterical, as all the employees searched the building for it but came up with nothing. The security cameras were also a dead end, glitching in and out the moment Antonio is seen leaving it on the examination table static only dissipating back to a clear view of the room after the body was gone. His call to inform the Chief of what happened had been… an experience. Everyone had gathered outside his office, leaning against the closed door to listen in. Dorothy wouldn’t be remotely surprised if this incident got Antonio fired based on the yelling coming through the other line.

“I think the Chief hung up,” Danny, an intern, whispered. “Oh shit, he’s coming!” Like a flock of startled chickens everyone scrambled away from the door, racing each other down the hall back to their respective posts just before he swung his door open.

Dorothy clocked out soon after, fantasies of flirting with Antonio and securing a date for the evening souring.

The City is a strange place.

She’s openly staring at the young (shirtless) man sitting across from her on the bus, attractive despite the welts and bruises and blood discoloring his pale skin. He has a thick, black briefcase held protectively against his stomach. 

He smiles.

She smiles back.

He winks, before turning his attention to his briefcase. He fiddles with the combination, popping it open and then -

He’s gone.

The City is a strange place.

Chapter Text

Pull the trigger.

Cha-Cha grits her teeth, sweating profusely as her hand shakes against her gun. The air is suffocating, heavy on her body like a physical weight, lungs constricting painfully and throat tight as though parched. She can’t seem to produce enough saliva to swallow down to relieve some of the tension. Her gasping breath is loud within this bubble of silence, this… terror has enveloped them in. Its eyes shine unnaturally bright against the shadows obscuring Its face, a dying star where its irises should be, ensnaring Cha-Cha deeper and deeper into its burning fury. She can’t look away, can’t even close her eyes, as she strains against her own muscles - fighting for control. The terror just stands there, watching her with the malicious glee of a kid frying ants under a magnifying glass, a mimicry of a toothy grin fixed on Its face.

Pull the trigger.

It could end this oh so easily. Drag her screaming and sobbing into achingly beautiful madness. But It wants to savor the stench of her fear; of curdled blood and splintered flesh left to cook beneath the eye of the sun. It tore through her like a maggot, searching for it, gluttonous. It’d been too long since It’d been able to feast like this with abandon. Always just beneath the surface, salivating and yearning but never allowed to indulge. Reduced to a ravenous, cannibalistic wretch tearing into Itself, into Them, like a mindless beast because Mine’s afraid of Mine’s own terror. Stupid child. Conceited and selfish, playing a mockery of a martyr - self flagellating from self-created guilt instead of coming into Mine’s own power. Instead of taking Mine’s rightful place within the shadows, within the madness… within the delicious terror ripe for the taking. 

Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. Pullthe trigger. Pullthetrigger.pullthetrigger.pullthetrigger -

The muzzle of Cha-Cha’s gun digs into her temple, finger steady on the trigger. She’s been reduced to a strung up puppet, at the mercy of her terror. What a crock of shit. She’s the best of the best; ruthless - cunning - efficient - a true master of her craft. To be brought to her knees by a mere boy, for a moment, the shame seared through her like a molten iron poker briefly overtaking the terror before being snuffed out under the terrors unyielding pressure.

Not once did the terror blink. She hadn’t even realized how wet her cheeks had become from the frustrated tears welling from her eyes until It swipes a gentle thumb against the swell of her cheek, almost like that of a parent comforting their child. Her stomach gives a sickening lurch at the gesture. 

Pull the trigger, Mary.

Cha-Cha inhales sharply.

Blood and bits of bone and flesh splatter against the outside window of the room, the gunshot like a crack of thunder, as her body collapses to the ground. The terror giggles, hunching over as if It can’t contain Its own hysteria before It cackles. Blood pools out of what’s left of Cha-Cha’s skull. It peers down as her, somewhat sated before Its eye flick to the other body within the motel room, gone cold. Not the teddy bear. Not Klaus. He was here though, not that long ago. The sweet scent of his distress and fear saturating the small room; Its teeth ached as It drank it in greedily. Just another delicacy ready to be prepared and feasted on. The fantasy unfolded within Its mind like a delicate, blooming flower. It would lay him out so tenderly, split him open bit by bit as It sank insatiable fingers into his terror - so ripe and plump like a pretty apple, practically begging to be devoured -

Its head snaps violently to the side as if slapped by an invisible palm, eyes bleeding into a molten brown, briefly, as Its lips twitched open against Its will -

F uU  … u C k   … oO o …. Ff ff …..

A distorted, snarling murmur pushed past its teeth, sounding vaguely human as it exhaled hotly. Its words were labored, taking monumental strength to roll off its tongue. Damian struggled against the oppressive weight keeping him subdued, as if he were a dog with his master's hand on the scruff of his neck forcing submission. His terror chuckled, rolling Its neck as muscles gave satisfying pops. Fine. Mine’s pretty thing’s off-limits. It turns to leave, ready to hunt down the teddy bear without giving the other body a second glance. Its body locks in place before It can take a single step, vibrating as control is fought between them; It snarls savagely in frustration, trying to push Damian deeper into themselves. The man thrashes violently, wrestling with his terror.

He … elP … hEr  … …

Mine - it scolds in exasperation, as though Damian were a toddler throwing a fit. It takes another look at the body at its feet, considering. Damian settles down, knowing he has Its attention, but maintains a tight grip on his terror. Stubborn child.

Le … mA … akE … a h…. DeaL ……

Oh?

Damian's words stumbled out of gritted teeth like a drunk, each letter agonizing to form and verbalize but he perseveres through the strain. 

SsssAvee her … And … yOu … hAve … who … eVer …

Mine, It breathes out in elation. A sadistic, giddy grin splits across Its face. Mine doesn’t know what Mine’s giving us.

U m … B r e l l a … o f f … lI m i t s …

It licks Its lips, salivating at the thought of getting to choose, freely, without restraint.

Mine won’t regret?

It waits for Damian’s answer, but he’s sunken back into the depths within themselves; exhausted and depleted of energy. Stubborn child. Kind child. It sinks to Its knees, gathering the body into Its arms as though It were a slumbering child, bearing Its weight effortlessly on Its lap. It cradles her head against Its chest, warm palm resting on the nape of her cold neck. It exhales, lowering Its head to connect their foreheads, finally closing Its eyes. Its other arm wraps around her waist, palm flat against the bloody bullet wound at her upper back.

Inhale … Exhale … inhale … exhale …

++++

Luther and Diego stare as Five sleeps, curled up on top of Diego's ratty comforter. It’s strange to see their brother this way, so young and innocent as though he’d been frozen in time. But this isn’t the Five they’d known as children, well, he’s still an irritating, condescending little bastard that hasn’t changed. But he’s more obsessive, short-tempered, and manic as he rants about time travel and some apocalypse and Damian, whoever the hell that is … like a shell-shocked soldier who’s lost half their mind and is well on their way to losing the other half completely. 

“If I didn’t know he was such a prick, I’d say he looks almost adorable in his sleep,” Diego says, somewhat conversationally.

“Well, don’t worry,” Luther grumbles in reply. He grimaces as his wet overcoat sticks to his back, having frantically scrubbed it of vomit as soon as they’d descended into Diego's room at the boxing gym. “He’ll sober up eventually. Be back to his normal, unpleasant self.”

Diego snorts. “I don’t think Five can be described as normal. He’s become a raving lunatic. Besides, I can’t wait for him to wake up. I need to find out what his connection is with those other lunatics and where they’re keeping Klaus.”

Luther shadows Diego at an ambling pace, face pensive. “All that stuff he was saying before… What do you think he meant by that? Do you think this Damian guy would have any answers? I mean, we don’t even know who he is -,” He cuts himself off as a loud thumping sounds overhead, somewhere within the gym. Both men look up towards the door. A steady set of footsteps draws closer. Diego unsheathes a dagger from his belt, quickly ascending the stairs leading to the door of the room. Luther hangs back, tense but not in a battle ready stance, as Diego makes some kind of gesture (signally Luther as if he’d know what it means) before jerking the door open, arm raised to throw his dagger -

“You throw another one of those goddamn knives at me,” a shrill, angry voice calls from somewhere out of sight. Diego relaxes his stance with an almost exasperated downward tilt of his head as Luther stares in slack mouthed confusion. “I’m pressin’ charges.”

“What do you want, Al?” Diego opens the door wider for a man in his 50s with a beanie on his head. “I ain’t your secretary.” He says, replying as if to a completely different question. “Yeah. Yeah.” Diego exhales, not that interested in what Al has to bother him with. He walks back down the stairs. 

“Some lady called for you,” Al elaborates, staying at the doorway. “Said she needs your help.”

“What lady?” Diego asks impatiently.

Al pauses, as if to recall. “I dunno. Some, uh, detective.”

This gets Diego’s attention. “Patch called?” He presses, confused. Then with a smug sort of lop-sided smile he says, to himself, “She needs my help.” He quickly starts up the stairs again. 

“She needs you to meet her at that motel, a dump on Calhorn.” Al continues, unwrapping a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket to give to Diego. 

“When?” He memorizes the address. 

“About half an hour ago. Uh, said she found your brother.” Al turns to shuffle back into the hall. “Klaus?” Diego calls after him. “Who knows?” Al gripes back, clearly fed up. 

Diego gives Luther a look. Luther turns to look at Five. “Go. I’ll wait here with -,” Diego’s already out the door, slamming it shut. Luther sighs. He gently pats Delores’s bald head. 

++++

The smell of blood and gunpowder stifles the air of the motel’s hallway. Diego goes straight for the open door of a room, ignoring the body of a dark skinned woman with her brains blown out. His heart seizes in fear as his eyes land on Eudora, her limp body folded within the arms of a man on his knees. There’s… so much blood. It’s sunk deep into the dingy carpet and soaked the front of the man’s scrubs. A nurse? The man is rocking her like she’s a child, humming a melody under his breath as if to sooth her from a nightmare. Diego wants to rip her from his arms, put her at a safe distance from this stranger but his body won’t move the way he wants. 

“Is she…” he chokes out, eyes shiny. “Is she dead?”

Beneath his white fringe, the man peeks up at him. In the dark room, his eyes seem to reflect oddly like an animal peering through the shadows - they feel so inhuman. A person’s eyes don’t shine like that. He breaks eye contact quickly, almost dismissive. He slips his hand away from Eudora’s back to move stray hairs away from her forehead with a finger. 

So sweet it can rot your teeth.

A violent shiver rakes down Diego’s spine, breath constricting in his lungs. That voice - it resonates deep within his body, like the howling unforgiving thunder of a glacier crashing into the sea. 

Her love runs deep. I can’t touch you. Such a shame. You’d be quite the challenge, enough to work up a tantalizing appetite. 

“Is she dead!” Diego roars, unsheathing a dagger as he moves further into the room with menacing steps. The man looks up, startled with an eerie sort of gleeful smile as his fear gives way for a desperate rage. Then his eyes narrow with irritation, smile slipping off his face like a mask. He seems to mutter something to himself before effortlessly rising from his knees with Eudora in his arms. As athletic as Diego has trained himself to be, even he would struggle with lifting deadweight like that, especially from such a position on the floor. It makes the man more threatening despite being smaller than Diego. 

Hush , child. She’s resting. 

They stand close enough for Diego to see the steady rise and fall of Eudora’s chest. Relief floods his system, but he can’t let his guard down. The man shifts his weight, arching an impatient brow.

Well, aren’t you go “ing to take her?” His voice shifts, distorting like the static of radio frequencies, into something more… human. Diego watches in stunned fascination as the man’s white hair bleeds into a healthy, brown. His eyes losing some of their intensity but still shining unnaturally like he has a constellation of stars trapped within his irises. He’s familiar somehow, like they’ve met before, but Diego can’t place him in recent memory. The corners of the man’s alluring eyes pinch as he grimaces. “ Please, take her. I can’t hold her weight.”

Diego’s quick to take Eudora into his arms with a grunt, just as the man stumbles with limp arms. It’s just so odd, the man had no trouble with her a moment ago. And he’s different now, less threatening and more personable - ordinary. 

“Just who are you? What happened? Where’s Klaus?” Diego growls out each question, holding Eudora protectively against his broad chest. 

“Chill out,” the man exhales. He rubs the nape of his neck, trying to work out the tension. “I just woke up.”

That statement doesn’t make any fucking sense. 

He looks about the room as if seeing it for the first time, a deep furrow in his brow. “I was… making breakfast. Klaus was at the table… Five was… gone, I think. Then, I was, I was here.” He mumbles to himself, trying to piece together his fuzzy, fragmented memories. Something is worming at the back of his mind, something important he’s forgotten. He looks up at Diego, sort of, more like he inclined his head in Diego's general direction without making eye contact. 

He narrows his eyes pensively down at Eudora in his arms. “Who’s that?”

++++

"When's it supposed to happen?" Luther askes quietly, as if somehow speaking any louder would bring the pending apocalypse right on their heads. "This... apocalypse."

"I can't give you the exact hour, but..." Five replies ruefully. "Approximately, we have four days left."

"Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"It wouldn't have mattered-"

"Of course it would!" Luther asserts. "We could've banded together and helped you try to stop this thing." Five can see that same little boy from their childhood as he looks upon the determined set of Luther's broad shoulders. Always so desperate to prove himself worthy as "leader", always trying to fight the good fight even when there wasn't a fight to be had. It was nothing but a circus, in the end, and Luther had always been Sir Reginald's top-performing dancing monkey.

"For the record, you already tried. I... found all of you. Your bodies."

"We die?"

"Horribly. You were together, trying to stop whoever it was that ends the world."

"How do you know that?"

Five reaches into his jacket pocket and gives Luther the fake glass eye. Luther gingerly takes it, inspecting it. "You must've ripped it right out of their head before you went down."

"Whose head?"

"I don't know."

"There's a serial number on the back. Maybe you can try-"

"That's a dead end," Five cuts in. He chuckles without humor. "Just another hunk of glass."

Before more can be said between them, Diego kicks up the door to his room with more force than perhaps strictly necessary, an unconscious woman in his arms as he strides down the stairs. “Piece of shit,” he snarls as Luther presses against the wall. Five stares up at the heaving man impassively, hair messy from sleep and face tacky with dried blood around his bruised cheek. “Get out of the way.” Diego grits out, shoving Five up from the bed to gently lay the woman down. He frets with the pillows, fluffing them as he adjusts her head as though she were a porcelain doll. Five glances down at the police officer badge at her hip. Diego angles his body back towards the door, but still keeps his doting attention on the detective. “And get your ass in here, kid.”

Luther’s face scrunches up in confusion. 

“I’m the same age as you jackass.” A voice bites out from the doorway. Both Luther and Five snap their heads to see a man dressed in bloodied scrubs cautiously descending the stairs. He pulls up short though when he sees - “Five? What are you doing here?”

“Damian,” Five exhales. “You're hurt.”

“Hm?” Damian tilts his head a little, eyes, of course, downcast. He picks at his shirt. “Oh! No, I’m okay. It’s her blood, I think.” He points to the prone body of the woman. “I think I fixed her up, but I uh, don’t really remember much.”

“Likely story.” Diego rounds on Damian, who bristles. “I found him at that hotel with Eudora. Klaus nowhere to be seen. And a woman in the hall. Her brains blown out.”

“I told you I don’t know who that was. I don’t understand what’s going on. I was at my apartment with Klaus when -,”

“When you just happen to find yourself at a crime scene,” Diego finishes sarcastically, as if reciting a conversation they’ve already had.

Damian scowled. “Glad it’s finally sinking in.”

“Damian,” Five cuts in, grabbing his attention instantly. “The woman at the motel. What did she look like?”

“Uh…” 

Damian had flinched violently when he saw her on the ground, blood and bits of brain splattered against the window, wall, and floor. If Diego hadn’t roughly grabbed his wrist with a gloved hand and tugged him in the opposite direction he probably would’ve spiraled into hysteria. 

“She was a black woman. Dressed in a suit.” Diego answered for him, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “She was already dead when I got there. Guess you don’t know what happened to her either, do you?” Diego directed the question to Damian with a snide curl of his lips.

Damian just frowned. "I'm pretty sure she killed herself."

Five has a pretty good idea of what happened. Cha-Cha committing suicide? Damian’s terror was triggered, although he doesn’t know how. Why would he be anywhere near Cha-Cha and Hazel? Five had left both him and Klaus safely back at Damian’s apartment. Neither should’ve even been on Cha-Cha and Hazel’s radar unless -

“Oh shit,” Five sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We need to know where Klaus is,” Diego says. “And you,” he points an aggressive finger at Five, “do you have any idea of what you’ve done? We were attacked because of you. Klaus was taken because of you. Eudora was shot because of you -,” he got angrier and angrier with each bitten out word, standing abruptly to lunge at Five. Luther moved quickly, bear hugging him to restrain him and lifting him off his feet.

Diego grunts furiously. “Nope, let me - Get your ape hands off of me!” He kicks his feet uselessly.

“I can do this as long as it takes you to calm down.” Luther says patiently. The scene would be funny, as Diego looked very much like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but Klaus’s apparent disappearance sours any humor in Damian’s stomach. Diego pants out a begrudging ‘fine’. 

Luther releases him.

“Now, let’s think this through.” Luther says. “That other guy wasn’t around - what was it? Hazel -,”

“Obviously -,”

“Maybe Klaus is with him.”

“Why don’t we start with who they are?” Diego groused, glaring down at Five. “And how you’re involved.”

Five flicks his eyes to Damian, who’s decided to sit on the arm of a chair occupied by Delores. The man is clearly spooked, just as in the dark as Five’s brothers, but he sends an encouraging nod. Five swallows, resigned. “They work for my former employer. A woman called The Handler. She sent them… to stop me. Seems they took Klaus and Damian to get to me. Then, as soon as Diego’s friend,” the all glance at the detective, “got in their way, well, fair game.”

“And now they're my fair game,” Diego says sharply. “I’m going to get Klaus back. And I’m going to see to it they pay.”

“That would be a mistake, Diego.” Five calls as his brother marches up the stairs towards the door. “They’ve killed people far more dangerous than you.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” Diego slams the door shut as he leaves.

Chapter Text

“You were told to take every precaution,” The Handler hissed at Hazel, who watches as the clean up crew takes Cha-Cha’s corpse away.

“Never have I seen such incompetence! Not only have you misplaced your briefcase, but failed to put down that terror.”

“He’s just a boy,” Hazel says quietly.

A boy he saw shot by Cha-Cha, who he saw bleed out in his own kitchen; a boy he saw dead. 

“I’m not talking about Damian Delgado.” The Handler exhales harshly. She looks around, pensive and severely pissed off.

“Figures he’d be just as hard to kill in this timeline. He’s not even in the driver's seat! We've lost our element of surprise...”

She stares up at Hazel. "All we can do now is cut a deal."