When you're dropped into the timeline to kill Five Hargreeves, you're really not expecting to encounter the apocalypse. You're also really not expecting to not want to kill him. Yet, somehow, here you are: pining over a lost boy who has probably gon...
With every freeze and snowstorm, it shortens the time you two can go out to scavenge. Excursions are reserved for making yellow snow and fetching fresh firewood from an external stash. It's the day Hell finally froze over, and, damn is it hellish.
Half your blankets have been sacrificed to the doors and windows. Towels have been stuffed in wall cracks and along the door jam. Spare clothes pile around the bed like a human bird's nest. You've both insulated as best as you can given the unorthodoxy of your material search.
It's still so cold.
Five lays on the bed, back to the wall of insulation you've crafted, and opens his arms with a grin you know means he's finally starting to go mad. Yet, maybe you are, too, because you shuck off your coat to use as an extra blanket and curl in against him, your back to his front.
His arms wrap around you, tentative but strong, and you resist the urge to shiver. It can't be helped when his nose tucks against your neck, breath leaving tingling trails of warmth against your skin.
"Are you still cold?" he murmurs, lips ghosting across the back of your neck.
The whine you make is wholly involuntary, spurred on by the warmth curling through your body that makes your stomach somersault pleasantly.
He freezes at the sound you make, and you fear for a moment that you've ruined everything. That he'll kick you out into the cold. But then he curls around you tighter.
"I smell like death," he whispers against you.
"I look like death," you reply.
He sighs, body going lax. "No wonder we get along so well."
You're certain that isn't the only reason.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The days drag on. You're alive, but hanging on by a thread. Time is hazy and nebulous. You'd lose track of days entirely if it weren't for the fact that each evening is punctuated with Five's warm and gentle embrace
But there are moments of reprieve from the nebulousness within your little cabin. There are days that are cool—cold, even—but not too harsh to be traversed. Sometimes, when the sky is clear and blue and the air feels crisp and fresh, you emerge together to face a new day of scavenging. Usually, it's for food or spare clothing. Other times, it's for firewood or fuel. On rare occasions, it's for entertainment.
Your winter boots, thicker and bulkier than your normal boots, crunch and slide against crumbling concrete. Winter has not only taken its toll on you but on the world entirely. Someday, you're sure nature will destroy it all, leaving only illusions of what human life might have been.
Despite the cold and terrible terrain, Five walks with a spring in his step. He's taking you to the library today. There's a book he needs to facilitate his time travel equations. Really, it's a necessity to go. You're just tagging along on the promise that you'll be able to find something interesting for yourself, too. In actuality, you just don't want to stray too far away from Five.
Your attachment has been one of many staggering developments that have occurred as the weather attempted to put you in a chokehold. If Five has noticed (he has), he hasn't said anything to you about it.
What's left of the library's once glorious rotunda is now a few meager, crumbling walls. The sight of real, in-tact books, though, quiets your dismay.
It's close. So close, you can nearly touch it.
But don't you know life never works out the way we want it?
The snow freezes around you, and every muscle in your body screams in tandem.
Five must notice your sudden tension because he edges toward you, feet shifting into a fighting stance.
He's so young. Too young to die. Your heart aches for him.
"What's—"
He's cut off by a woman with a blonde bob and a saccharine smile. "My, my," she coos. "Aren't you two quite the handful?"
"Is that—?"
"The Handler," you confirm.
Every thrum of your heart screams for you to do something, but you can't move. It's like all your limbs are connected with taffy, falling lax and uncoordinated at your sides.
Five, however, has no such reservations standing up to the Handler. At least, that certainly appears to be the case when he heaves his shotgun into position—barrel aiming directly at her face.
"You here to kill us?" he growls.
She laughs. God, you've never hated a sound so much in your life.
"No. I'm here to offer you pesky rulebreakers a deal. In most economies, it would be seen as a good one, so I recommend you take it."
Five, to your immense gratitude, takes the wheel. "What's the deal?"
"You come work for me at the Commission. Give us a five year contract. Then, you can retire in peace in any timeline you want."
It's tempting. So tempting, it had worked on you a lifetime ago. What a fool you'd been—
"What about my siblings?"
"We can't change the timeline like that. They have to die. The apocalypse has to happen."
"Why?"
"Oh, dear, hasn't our little Renegade told you? We preserve the timeline. That's our job."
He doesn't look at you, but she does. It's all sadistic smiles and sharp eyes, the pearly teeth of a hunting cat.
"That's the deal. Take it or leave it."
Five's calculations are nowhere near done. He needs time and food and space to think. He wants to save you. He wants to see his siblings again. He wants— But he has to play it cool.
"It'd be nice to get out of this shithole," he concedes, finally glancing to look at you.
For the first time since he met you, you look truly frightened. Twitchy and uneasy, he can practically see the hair on the back of your neck raising. "There's a catch," you murmur. "There's always a catch."
And maybe there would be. But Five certainly wasn't going to run the risk of dying in the apocalypse with no escape in sight. "If there's a catch, I'll deal with it."
"But—"
"You're not getting stranded again. I won't let them do that."
"Promise?" The word is no more than a whisper in the wind. Yet, somehow, Five still hears it, reaching out to squeeze your hand with his own.
"Promise."
With practiced motions, you neutralized your expression, meeting the Handler's gaze with steely resolve and a single, curt nod.
She claps in falsified delight. "Excellent. Off we go, then."
The sensation of time traveling washes over you, and the memories it evokes hit you like a truck. Five's grip on your hand is unwavering; it's the only thing that keeps you sane.
The sentiment is doubled when your eyes land on the Commission barracks. Your stomach somersaults, and you only realize you've locked Five's hand in a death grip when he yanks you.
