CW: thoughts of suicide!

sorry for the long wait :/

+1.

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43%. 25%. 64%.

A baker. A mother. A dancer.

Everyone Five might pass on the street is another number. He's calculated them all—made it too far to fail now. Calculates them again every morning and finishes as the next dawns.

Is it crazy to want to lock Vanya up? Five does and he doesn't. The probability of locking her up and ending the world is .94. That's too high to risk. Too high to even consider.

But Five also thinks if she wasn't around he might be able to get some sleep.

Every step is a potential misstep. He runs the numbers and knows just how bad things could be. Five's not overthinking the ease of tragedy, he's covering all the bases.

(Diego forgets Vanya's favorite tea at the supermarket. 64%.)

There's broken chalk on the floor, dissolving in a puddle of coffee Five didn't clean up. It's not important that it'll congeal thick and bitter. Just like it doesn't matter that the walls are filled in paranoid script, or that the table, or the books, or him or anyone else is marked up in numbers.

(Vanya's violin gets stolen. 89%.)

He leaves it behind. Needs to clear his head. Picks up a marker (just in case) and climbs out the window. Five perches on the edge before diving off. He takes the fire escape like a goshawk who forgets to fly.

(Vanya learns what's on Five's wrist. 98%.)

.

Five doesn't like the city. It's too loud. There are too many people. Sometimes the dissonance from apocalypse is nice that he doesn't get sucked into memories and trauma. Others all the sounds makes his head hurt and chest pound nosily. He doesn't like that he knows the probability that any given person on the street will set off the end of days.

But he wanders the city, regardless. It's not something he likes to do, and that's why he'd like to do it now. The house can be hard to inhabit. Five trails along the edge of busy streets and ducks into alleys when the bustle is too bustle-y.

Only alleyways are just as loud. Loud with the harsh of graffiti and loud with how the buildings tower over him. It's a different sort of loud, but it leaves the same self-hating impression.

There's only so many ways to get out of all that noise.

Yet, he keeps walking. Wandering. The pain of other people and the screaming in his ears is welcome. Five appreciates the idea of a suffering he hasn't manufactured with numbers and insomnia, so he lets the city eat him whole. The city's teeth bump into Five as he counter-currents down the sidewalk. Its tongue is a blare of sirens.

And the ring of a cellphone.

Actually—shit. Is that his phone? It must have been in his pocket when he bailed earlier. Five's still not especially used to having a phone of his own. Damn.

Five checks the caller, but is already resigned to the reality of answering before it's up.

It's Vanya.

Damn. Literally the worst sibling to call him, honestly. Talking to Vanya is like talking to the apocalypse herself. He has to steel himself before picking up the line. It's cold metal spreading through his body and laying his tongue flat and heavy. "It's Five." He says, like he's trying with all his might to pretend the person on the other end of the signal is just a coworker.

"Five, thank goodness!" Vanya doesn't usually sound so emotional. She's one to reply with mellowed, reasoned words instead, and the dissonance is a bit worrying. "Luther said you two fought, but when I went to check on you, no one was here. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Ah—" Number Seven stop-starts, "Right. Okay. It's just—there was spilt coffee all over the floor. I was—we were worried something might have happened."

She still sounds a bit breathy, and Five feels something like guilt or terror wash over him. "No," he answers, simply, "I just wanted to get out." Talking to Vanya always feels like navigating a minefield these days. He's carefully picking words and running quick, incomplete equations through his head to keep ahead of the apocalypse.

"I'm glad." And she really does sound it. Only, there's still something weighing down Vanya's tone and the uncertainty is driving Five mad with worry.

Five holds his breath in a quick attempt to ground the panic chasing up his lungs.

Vanya seems to also appreciate the moment to build resolve when her voice breaks out over the line (in static, robot song), "Listen, Five... you know how I've been seeing a therapist? It's just, I've been thinking you might benefit from seeing one too."

"No way." The words are out before he can catch them building in his thoughts.

"That's fine." She tempers, seeming to expect the interruption. "I'll—I'm glad we did this over the phone, actually. You can think about it before coming back, okay? Then we can talk again, Five."

It feels like the steely set to his frame is burning up under the pressure of being so transparent and... weak. "I don't need to talk to any doctor."

"Just think about it, okay? I mentioned therapy to the others, too. Since Dad... well, we all have a lot of issues. I think it would help all of us to talk about what happened."

(Five's mind wanders to the apocalypse. The terror of being alone, of burning alone. The plastic touch of an imagined companion. The smell of rotted meat in the air, appreciated by maggots and a cicada's song. Five thinks about The Handler, and how her eyes are just as dead as his.)

"Nothing happened." Five replies after a moment too long had passed, then hangs up with a thick set to his face. He wonders what expression Vanya's making right now. Is she angry? Confused? Or is it one of those bitter-tasting looks Five can never name correctly? But with how his phone has turned back to the home screen, he supposes he won't get to know.

Therapy—honestly! Is that how little she thinks of him? Five's not selfish enough to think he needs counsel and he's not crazy enough to need medication. If he can survive the apocalypse and survive being a time-space assassin, he's surely proven he can handle the stresses of modern life. Five wishes he had told Vanya as much before hanging up, but isn't sure that she wouldn't have had a more informed comeback than his own.

Five shoves the phone back into his pocket and picks up his wandering pace. Therapy. What a joke.

So caught up in angry discontent as he is, Five doesn't realize he's hung up on Vanya of all people until well-enough five minutes later. At such a time, even though his appearance is rather quite young and there really are many people around, Five suddenly shouts, "Fuck!"

He's—Five is so fucking stupid. Too tired to think ahead and too angry to consider actions. Five just hung up on the apocalypse. Who does that? He tries to quickly do the math in his head for how badly he's screwed up today's chance of not becoming an inescapable hellscape, but can't keep the numbers straight for how bad he's shaking.

"Fuck—ah," It's a grand old thing he brought that marker along today. Even his past self knew he would ruin things today. Five will just... do the math here. Somewhere. And then... Five doesn't know. Run home and apologize if the case may be. Or welcome the end of days if things are too close.

How stupid. Vanya's probably having a mental breakdown, right? His family is probably slaughtered by now. The building crumbled down. The bodies burning—

Five takes a deep breath. The math first, panicking later. The attempt at calming helps only minimally.

Uncapping the marker, Five considers where to start writing. His arm is sacred land for vague ideations only. But there's a huge, open canvas just to Five's left. A large, white building here, a brick one there. Five's fairly used to writing on buildings just to keep his thoughts straight, as there isn't much paper in the end-times.

So he starts writing there. A minute passes—two, and the once clear city building is soon marred by row-after-row of statistical inquiry. Probability. Error. Confidence Interval. Oh, what's the Effect Size here? Five is still going, feeling a sick nervousness growing in his chest, when someone clears their throat behind him.

Figuring it's not for him, Five is especially bemused when that same, grumbling noise sounds again. This time, it's followed by a gruff, "We don't allow graffiti here, kid."

Five factors in Luther's presence to the equation, then considers that the other siblings were around, too. "Good for you."

"...shouldn't you be in school?"

"Does it look like I go to school?" And, actually, that's probably a bad question. Five tries again, rounding off a number before turning to face his inquirer, "Don't answer that. Ever."

And—fuck. If that isn't a police officer! Five tries to avoid the law; mostly because he looks like a lost child, but also because he doesn't like people telling him what to do. Authority figures like The Handler and cops are the sorts of people he likes to steer clear of.

The cop raises a brow. "You look like you should be in school." Is what he ends up saying. Five squints to read the man's name from where it's pinned to the uniform. Before he can make out the word, the officer smiles down at him, flashing a badge. "Officer Ramirez."

Five returns the smile, trying to pretend like he cares, but gives up on the act pretty quick. He's thinking about the math again, actually. With how quick he did it, Five's sure he made a mistake somewhere. A .64 is fairly high, but it isn't necessarily world-ending. He should double-check, just to be sure. He starts writing again.

"Now—hey! Please stop." Ramirez sounds heartbroken at the prospect of Five's uncaring. "This is illegal, you know? You're breaking the law in front of a cop?"

Oh, shit. No cops in the apocalypse, Five thinks wryly. Anyway, the number comes out the same, so Five can breathe a little easier. He'll talk to Vanya later, though. Clear things up. But first—

"I am going to have to bring you in, kid."

But first he's going to the police station.

.

(Sometimes he wishes Vanya would just get on with it already.)

Ramirez plays a song on the radio that Five doesn't recognize. It sounds like music, up until the point that it doesn't anymore. After that, all Five can think about is how badly fucked up everything is.

(In Five's dreams, Vanya already has.)

.

The police station is too... loud. There's a buzzing coming from the overhead lights and a buzzing coming from the fans and a buzzing coming from everyone's mouths. Five let's his mind wander from the sounds before they make him sick.

Maybe he's just stressed—that's probably why Five's been thinking about killing himself lately. Probably. He's up from dusk 'til dawn, writing equation after equation. But the real thing that tightens that knot in his throat is the simple fact that he's the only one worried about the world ending. Allison tells him off for it, Vanya quietly disapproves, Klaus can't be bothered, and Luther wants him gone. All the while, Five's counting down the days until the world ends. Counting it on the table and the walls and wrapped around the wrist he dreams of slitting.

Five groans loudly into his elbow, where his head is rested on the officer's desk. His thoughts are dark and tangling, and Five easily blames the lack of sleep. "I'm tired."

"What's that?" Running a gaze over the boy, the officer—Ramirez—hums. "You do look a little peaky. I'll get you something to drink." But he only motions for another officer to get a glass of water.

He'd rather have coffee.

"So," Ramirez starts, "I don't think we've never had you in here before, kid. We'll talk with your guardians and let you off pretty light."

Five is fairly sure there's pity in the man's gaze. He wants to hate it, but Five is feeling pretty pitiful.

"You know, I've never seen someone graffiti their math homework on public property before!" He jokes.

The other officer returns with a paper cup filled with water. Five takes it to have something to do with his hands. "Thanks," he says, tense. He sips his water like a man waiting for the world to end. Or like a child who didn't want to deal with nosy officers.

"Calm down, kid." Ramirez sighs, looking put off by Five's unwillingness to play. "You aren't in that much trouble."

It's almost funny how horrifically Officer Ramirez is misinterpreting Five's morbid gaze. But the wake of his humor makes Five's throat feel tight. He doesn't want to see Vanya. The thought occurs to him like a thunderstorm on a clear day. And Five knows that's selfish—it makes him feel a bit sick—but Vanya's eyes are innocent where her voice is pure Armageddon.

"Alright," Ramirez huffs, "You already know I'm officer Ramirez. Can I get a name from you now, kid?"

Briefly, Five is tempted to not give a name at all—let the officer fumble and flail while Five gets a break from family. But every second passed is a second wasted. At least if they hurry this along he can work things out with Vanya quickly. Apologize for hanging up on her and then avoid her until the end of days.

"Five." He says by way of answer, feeling every bit the child he isn't.

The officer blinks owlishly. "Like the number?"

"Do you need me to spell that for you, too?"

"Uh—no, no. I think I've got it covered." He stumbles, then, "You have a last name—uh—Five?"

"Hargreeves."

Ramirez nods, typing for a second before he seems to realize what Five said. The officer turns back to him with a blank, blinking expression. "Like the kids with powers?"

"Sure." he shrugs.

"...Aren't you supposed to be an adult by now?"

"You're telling me."

After a moment, the typing picks back up. Ramirez breathes out a sigh like he's just gotten involved in something a little beyond him. "..."

"What?"

"It says here you were... reported missing. Years and years ago."

Oh. Yeah. Did they never clear it up that he had come back? Five's been a bit preoccupied since the not-apocalypse and his siblings are all born idiots, so he supposes not. Go figure this would come back to bite him. "Here I am." Five tries half-heartedly, not caring much for the dramatics.

"Just... tell me who I can call." Ramirez sounds defeated, but Five's too busy looking for the coffee maker to care.

.

The call comes in two minutes later. Klaus grins from the sofa, watching with good humor as Vanya's face twists at whatever comes from the other end of the line. Ever intrigued, he waves, "Who was that, dear sister?"

"I think Five just got arrested." She tries, words hollow and bemused.

Diego snorts. "He was really upset about that therapy thing, huh?"

.

Vanya pulls up to a stoplight when Klaus eagerly points out the window. There's a building with strange, illegibly mathematical scribbles crossing over its walls.

"A clue," he informs neatly.

"Oh, god." Diego groans, "My brother's a delinquent."

Vanya rolls her eyes. "Which one?"

.

As it happens two ex-superheroes and one Vanya entering the police station to visit they're 10-year-old/50-year-old brother raises a few eyes. Despite this, the other officers give them a wide berth. Five imagines this is because they can sense how irritated and tired he is. (In fact, the officer's do stay away for this exact reason. The boy slowly drinking water at Ramirez's desk has a look of pure murder in his eyes even the most seasoned of detectives won't chance.)

Diego runs ahead to meet Five, while the other two trail behind casually. "Are you okay?!"

Blinking lazily, Five hums affirmative. He turns to face the others, commenting, "Oh look. You brought the whole gang."

"I heard you'd been detained," Vanya says, "And the others wanted to come, too."

From his seat, Ramirez stands, looking suitably confused by this turn of events. "...Right. And you're... his guardians, then?"

"Absolutely."

"Absolutely not."

Klaus and Diego glance at each other, while Vanya rolls her eyes. She clears her throat. "It's complicated. Can I talk to Five for a minute?"

Despite his looking like a child, Five manages to mask his dread fairly well. He mentally rolls up his sleeves to prepare for the inevitable verbal minefield he's about to walk through.

"Why not." Ramirez sounds defeated. Before Vanya carts Five away, he can hear the officer ask his brothers, "Is he actually an adult?"

"No!"

"Yes."

Klaus and Diego share a look.

.

"Listen, Five..." Vanya starts, but Five can't wait any longer. The weight of the world might rest on his apology.

"I'm sorry." He interrupts, voice nearly cracking, "For hanging up on you. Or, you know, anything else you're upset about."

She blinks, voice level. "I'm not upset about that, Five. What I asked you... it's something that should be discussed in person, after all. I'm worried about you."

Five doesn't reply for a moment.

"Anyone could see you're having a tough time readjusting to regular life." She continues. "And no one's blaming you for that. I just know how much therapy has helped me deal with Dad and with the apocalypse and I want to see that improvement in you, too."

Closing his eyes, Five tries to clear his head. If Vanya is a bomb, then he's the defuser. It's his responsibility to know everything about her—to write the manual for the end of the world. And everything she says is a blow to Five's character, but so what?

"Five... please say something."

It is then that Five remembers that he's not the important one here. It takes a minute of silence before he speaks again.

"...fine."

Vanya starts, like she hadn't expected his answer. "O-oh, really? Great! Well, I'll make an appointment for you then, and—"

Five stops listening. He finds the details don't matter much, in the end. This is what Five knows: therapy won't help him, because he doesn't need help. The only person who might fix his problems is maybe a quantum physicist or a statistician. Someone to run the numbers for him. But Five is exhausted and terrified and immeasurably in love with his family.

If it takes going to therapy for Vanya to let the world keep spinning for one more day, he'll just have to agree.

Best not to rock the boat (Vanya is Noah's Arc—she carries the whole world on her shoulders. Five just keeps the animals from tipping the damn thing over).

Maybe the psychiatrist will give him enough drugs that these morbid thoughts can leave him alone. He'd get more work done like that.

Towering above him, Noah's Arc is smiling.

.

Klaus waves at them when they return, looking entirely too pleased for someone in a police station. "Dear brother," he says by way of greeting, "Welcome to the arrestee club. The first time I was arrested was for drug possession, but graffiti is a start."

"I've killed hundreds of people. Do not patronize me."

The officer blinks. "Excuse me."

Vanya smiles, anyway. She seems terribly happy with this turn of events, which makes Five feel so relieved he might just pass out. "Don't listen to him, please."

For all their familial bluster, Diego manages to ground them. "Anyway." He shoots Klaus a glare. "What do we need to do to get out of here? Pay a fine?"

"I'm letting you off the hook." Ramirez says instead.

"Really?" Klaus starts. "Thanks, my man."

"This isn't a favor." He amends, staring blankly at Five. "Mostly I'm just confused if you're actually a kid or not."

.

Five stares emptily at the coffee maker by the far wall, but with how Vanya's smiling, he thinks he'll just go to sleep.