TW: Sexual assault, panic attacks, mentions of hating body, implied p3dophilia (brief), mentions of sexual harassment
When Five first joined the Commission, he had a panic attack in the middle of headquarters, overwhelmed by the sudden amount of people surrounding him.
He would get headaches from the noises in the office, the buzzing voices seeming to pound in his skull. Any sort of physical contact sent him into near hysterics, the thought of some one shaking his hand making him want to peel off his own skin.
It was a problem.
Someone -- he wasn't sure who -- ended up reporting it to upper management, recommending that Five attend therapy and get some time off to adjust.
If Five had known who it was, he would've already used his ability to turn back time to go and personally beat that person unconscious.
Because -- if it weren't for that freaking idiot -- word never would've gotten to the Handler.
He shuttered at the memory of her crimson lips curling into a dangerous smile as she stepped into the room he'd been given to stay in.
"What do you want?" he'd croaked. His body had ached, an itch running just under the skin.
The Commission had decided to 'fix' him. They said his body was too old, too broken, too damaged. He'd never make it in that old sack of bones. One wrong job and he'd be dead, useful to no one.
So, they'd drugged him at breakfast one morning and the next thing he'd known he was on an operating table.
He hated what they'd done to him. What he'd become.
He was thirteen again. The age when he'd been at his peak.
It was surreal looking in the mirror, seeing a boy who'd died so long ago. Five had buried him with his siblings, knowing that child would never have survived in the apocalypse. He was too young, too innocent, too reliant on others.
And here he was again, staring him down in a mirror.
He remembered seeing the Handler smiling at him in its reflection. "I heard someone was having a little trouble adjusting to their surroundings."
"I'm fine," he'd said stiffly, wanting her to just go the hell away.
She tutted. "Now, now Five, we both know that isn't true," she'd laughed, stepping into the room. "I know it's hard. I just want to help."
"I don't want your help."
"You don't want it, but you need it."
He turned to her, glaring. "The only thing I need is for you to get the hell out of my room."
She didn't leave. Instead, she shut the door behind her and moved across the room, sitting down on his bed.
He pulled at his tie, discomfort rolling through him. The Handler was always weird around him, but the weirdness had seemed to amplify since his body had been modified.
She patted the blanket beside her, gesturing for him to sit.
He doesn't.
She smiles.
"Five, have you ever heard of immersion therapy?" she asked, words laced with poison.
Unease rolled through his stomach, his skin crawling with suspicion.
"Why do you want to know?" he asked slowly, clenching his fists.
An old instinct rose up in him, like prey corned by the enemy. It reminded him of when he was a child, and he and his siblings took out a gang. Three of them had corned him with sadistic grins on their faces, their intentions disgusting as they reached for him with their filthy hands.
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Umbrella Academy One Shots
Fanfiction*Please read the listed trigger warnings before each story! Welcome to Umbrella Academy One shots! This little collection is a series of stories about everyone's favorite dysfunctional super family, and will contain everything from a deep dive into...