The Cost of Time- Five Hargreeves x OC story

Father of the Year

I was back in the main living area, framed by Five's painting, as Allison stepped into the house. She surveyed her surroundings, a place that echoed with the memories of a past life she had fought so hard to escape. The very walls that had witnessed her endure the loss of two brothers and a sister.

From my vantage point by the doorway, I watched her take a few tentative steps forward, shrugging off her jacket. Pogo welcomed her home from the top of the stairs, descending to wrap her in a warm embrace. After a brief exchange, he retreated, leaving her alone to absorb the weight of her surroundings. Nothing had changed here; the mansion remained a stagnant reminder of all that had been lost, me included.

Allison paused, her gaze drifting towards the living area, hesitating as she caught sight of me. Her mouth fell slightly open. "Soph—God, you look exactly the same," she murmured, almost to herself. I realized then that, despite the seventeen years that had passed, my physical form remained unchanged. What had caused this? Even Reginald had never figured it out, and honestly, I never cared to know. All I was certain of was that I had woken up, and life had moved on without me.

"Well, if I had a nickel," I replied, half-joking about how often I'd heard that line from my siblings over the past few months. "And you look...like a thirty-year-old should," I added with a smirk, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere as I took a moment to really observe her. A soft laugh escaped her lips, cutting through the tension, and I felt a strange mix of pain and comfort wash over me. Growing up in a house full of brothers, Allison had been my anchor, my refuge after the most harrowing missions we were expected to shake off.

Silence fell between us, stretching longer than it should. "Look, Soph, I wanted to see you. The moment I heard you woke up, I really did want to—" she began, rushing to defend herself for the months of absence.

"Yet, wanting and doing are two different things," I interrupted, my tone sharper than I intended. Regret washed over me instantly; my sister hadn't seen me in years, and here I was, starting a fight.

I sighed, crossing my arms as I watched her stand there, momentarily speechless. "This isn't the time. Dad's gone, and we all have to attend a funeral out of pity, so if I were you, I'd get comfortable," I added sarcastically, forcing a tight-lipped smirk.

Without waiting for her response, I turned and walked away, heading upstairs. I didn't know where I was going, but I needed to distance myself from Allison. She was my family, but confronting her, even just seeing her, was far more overwhelming than I had anticipated. One moment we were both teenagers, and now she stood before me as a grown woman—a person with a family, a life, a career. And I felt like I didn't belong in any part of it.

. . . . .

After Allison and I spent some time in the mansion, the rest of our siblings eventually arrived, though we all kept our distance, avoiding each other. I found myself sitting at the bar, sipping on wine our father had stashed away in a cabinet. I hadn't tried drinking before my coma, except for one night when Klaus sneaked out, and I followed him out of fear he'd forget how to get home, knowing he'd get drunk. We ended up at a nearby party, and I, curious, tried alcohol for the first time. Needless to say, we got in trouble for staying out all night and had to call one of our siblings to pick us up—definitely not my proudest moment. It didn't happen again for me, but Klaus made a habit of it. Now, here I was, drinking again. Reginald's prescribed medication gave me energy, but it also came with migraines, and the old wine—despite tasting like it was 300 years old—seemed to help with the pain.

As I quietly drank, I heard the front door open. My siblings began arriving one by one. I stayed hidden at the bar, unwilling to face them all at once. It would have made everything feel too real, like standing in front of strangers. The only person I almost seemed to recognize was Diego. He hadn't made an effort to avoid me—he was snooping around the mansion, searching for signs that Reginald's death was more than just heart failure. Diego, being Diego, had a dozen questions. He asked if I'd noticed anything strange the night our father died. I tried to tell him that it was inevitable—Reginald was old, and his death wasn't surprising. But Diego wasn't satisfied with my answer and continued searching the place, opening and closing windows like an FBI agent. Oddly enough, it was comforting; Diego hadn't changed much. He still clung to his superhero instincts, always wanting to help people.