definitely maybe i will live to love || Five x Reader/OC ||

i wanna make a supersonic woman of you

Don't Stop Me Now

("Does it hurt?" You tenderly hold Five's wrist. His skin is red and raw around the fresh tattoo of an umbrella.

"Of course it does," he snips back, but his cutting tone is weaker than normal.

"You shouldn't have it exposed like this."

"It's fine. Just stop breathing on it so much, god."

But Five doesn't pull away, and you don't lean back.

His finger grazes against the metal band on your own wrist with its own engraved umbrella.)

-

Five knows something else was said between you and Vanya. It grates against him, but since he doesn't want to sound paranoid and stupid for trying to pry whatever it is out of you two that obviously isn't about the apocalypse, he's left to clench his jaw and send you looks that you're not meant to notice.

Except you catch the look anyway, sharp and quick beneath long lashes.

A jolt of panic spears through Five's chest at being made, even though it's nothing, why the hell is he acting so weird when it's just a look, god—

And then you return his look with an infuriatingly soft, wry look of your own that holds some kind of knowing to it. What? What is it? What the hell is it? Five wants to bark the question, but Vanya's presence keeps him from saying anything. Maybe it's for the best. That look does something to him—makes him feel jumbled and flushed, and his voice would likely crack mid-sentence and embarrass him more.

Not that he is embarrassed. Why does he have any reason to be embarrassed? Your expression is merely an amalgamation of facial twitches and cues. Just a byproduct of human anatomy.

Except you and Vanya were talking about Five, weren't you? What about?

Okay. Five is fifty-nine years old, goddammit. He is a grown man. He's not going to be bothered by you and whatever it is you spoke about because he's mature and patient and other stuff like that. You are not going to make him feel fifteen again, all twitchy and paranoid about what you're saying when he's not around because that results in an uncontrolled factor to which Five is not the most knowledgeable in the room about. It's not worth his time, and it's not worth his dignity.

So, Five straightens his blazer and sets his sights on the cabin in the distance. There's an apocalypse to stop today. Everything, everything he had survived for, planned for, fought for, killed for, time traveled for—it's all led to today. And after? And after this...

(And then what? you asked him, voice soft in the hissing wasteland wind that snaked through the library at night. And then? After you save me? Save Vanya? Save our family?

"Dance," Five muttered back. He imagined you next to him, situated close to let him siphon your warm light into his freezing, half-starved body. Sometimes, if he imagined hard enough, it lessened the trembling ache of the chill. Sometimes, if he imagined hard enough, he could feel your fingers flit against his arm, trail up, and squeeze his face. "Like I promised."

In the light? In the house?

"Yeah. In the light. In the house."

And then he'd cry helpless, lonely tears.

Sometimes, if he imagined hard enough, Five could believe that he had escaped the apocalypse, traveled back to you and finally, finally—)

After this—well, he already had an answer, didn't he?