Archive of Our Own ^beta

number five isn't human. maybe he never was.

dna that isn't his spoils his veins, turning his blood toxic and dangerous. murderous rage fills his eyes. no matter how much he scrubs, blood still covers his hands.

he told himself he would never kill again. the commission, even though they're gone, has other plans. even time can't heal this, can't reverse it so he can pretend nothing happened.

no, they're too cruel. 

five hargreeves (that's not his name, he doesn't have a name, he is a number ) stares into his own manic green eyes in the mirror. blood soaks his shirt and coats his face, sticky and cold. he's gotten too used to this.

i don't like to kill , he tries to convince himself, i never have.

he can't pull it off. the sheer excitement of burying an axe into someone's head, blood coating the walls and the life leaving their eyes. the adrenaline that hasn't worn off yet, that itch in his mind that gets stronger every time he takes a life? that's evidence. he likes it. the handler is right- they didn't make him a killer. he already was one. they just gave him a push.

what he hasn't gotten used to, though, is having a family that looks at him like he's a monster. (because he is, he is a killer and a monster and he's rotten from the inside out, he's not who they knew and they're idiots for thinking he is.)

diego and luther stared in horror as he walked in. they both took a step back. he's seen that look a lot on his siblings faces, lately. the look of disgust, fear. the realization that five hargreeves doesn't exist anymore, now it's just the number. he's not the boy, not the fifth member of the academy, he is a weapon. a soldier. he lost his mind in the apocalypse and he was taken apart and put together again in the commission and he killed people, innocent people, because he was told to.

five hargreeves had never followed rules. now, it's all he can do.

he's still staring in the mirror. he can't stand it anymore, but looking anywhere else is no different. there is red still under his fingernails. his hands shake. a small scratch from the woman who tackled him stings his arm. he smells like iron.

he can't see the dead. no, that's klaus’ curse. but he can sense the hundreds, maybe thousands of ghosts that follow him. ones that he killed.

a family of four. a pregnant mom. a young man who wanted to get into med school.

they haunt him while he sleeps, and he feels them when he's awake. there's no safe state now, no place he can slip into and forget how to feel for a little bit. now, he's numb, and they still won't leave him alone. 

(it's his fault, really. he should've never took her hand that morning in the apocalypse. maybe he should've died before any of this could happen. save everyone the trouble.)

five doesn't seem to care anymore, though. maybe that's the silver lining. so much blood and gore and death that he's grown used to it. a constant in his fucked up life. a bad habit he can't seem to let go.

everything he's done, he's done it for his family. his siblings.

he's not planning on his survival. he's lived long enough, seen too much, experienced everything. he's had too much time. his siblings, though? they have their lives ahead of them.

except for ben. his greatest regret. ben, the one who read books with five in the library. ben, the one who patched up five's injuries after training. ben, the one who held too much power in his too small body and died for it. ben, the one who has no life now. forced to follow their brother for eternity.

five turns on the sink, scrubs at his hands again. the red that stains them will never go away.