𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇!

VIII

JAMEY AND FIVE!

−

Number Five fumbled with the lock of his bedroom window back at The Umbrella Academy. The sky had stopped its weeping, leaving the city in a coat of tears, the moon's light reflected off the puddles and the blood of Jamey's bullet wound.

Jamey clutched her side as she and Five stumbled into his boyish bedroom. She stood up and immediately started to strip her jacket off. Jamey Harris had been shot many times in her life, she recalled the most painful being a big hit to the lower gut when she was 16.

"It's all part of the game..." is what she recalled mumbling after she successfully eliminated Mercy Ritter in his own home. The name fit the reaction he had to the young killer.

The crimson blood was dripping down her fingers when she removed her purple tank top, leaving her in her bra. She had forgotten how much bullets stung. Five placed Delores down on a wooden chair and opened a drawer, pulling out some cleansing alcohol and gauze. Jamey sat down on his soft bed and moved her hand away from her side slowly. She watched expressionless as her blood trickled all the way down her arm and dribbled onto the hardwood below. Scarlett stream.

As Five cleaned her wound, Jamey glared at her feet. "Are you alright, mi amor?" Five whispered to her smoothly. His soft tone gave her a chill. The alcohol hissed on her skin. Spanish.

"Last time it hurt this badly, I wanted to die..." she responded truthfully. Five only hummed in agreement. He knew just how bad her job was. "I want to go home, Five. I hate this."

"I know."

Jamey flinched and shook her head slightly. "No you don't. You have a family," she watched him press some gauze to her side.

"I didn't for a while..." Five studied her saddened copper eyes and she stared back at him. "And I'm probably the only person who will understand what you're going through," he said. Jamey had never seen him like this before, and it intrigued her. "I know you miss your family. Believe me, I know."

Her eyes softened as she listened to him. "You know about them?" she questioned.

"I do..." he paused and glanced down at the floor before looking back up at her. "And I'm sorry."

Weak, 30 years, burn, and pity all screamed when he said that to her. Her skin was on fire as she continued to gaze into his sparkly green eyes. But what struck her the most was the way he said it. There was no sarcasm tangled up in his words. No bitchy smile on his lips. Just raw feelings.

She felt his fingers graze her hand, and that's when a wave of senses were thrown back at her. The nighttime traffic outside ringed loudly in her ears, the light of the lamp Five had turned on seemed to blind her, and the smell of coffee and reserved memories invaded her nose.