Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

House Hargreeves sat in quiet isolation outside city limits, unseen from any road save the long, graveled driveway that wound from a set of tall, wrought iron gates to its grand entrance. A stone terrace stood over the front stairs, stretching forward far enough to allow for a carriage to pass beneath its arches, covering the looming mahogany doors in cool shadow, even on the warmest of summer days. It was on one such summer day that the iron gates opened at dawn with a groan to allow a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow passage. The car drove away from House Hargreeves, empty except for a mustachioed gentleman in the driver’s seat, his uniform white, and his face solemn.

An hour later the vehicle returned, this time with a passenger. A child.

Blond-haired and blue-eyed, the boy peered out of the backseat window with a look of hesitant hope, his face pressed against the glass as he took in the sprawling grounds. He was tall for his age, but his height was diminished by the insecurity that hunched his shoulders. A fraying green duffle bag sat on his lap, his hands clenched tight around the straps as one of his legs bounced beneath it. It was the only possession he had in the world.

Gravel crunched under the tires as they approached the dark mansion ahead, and the boy gaped at its silhouette as the sun rose behind it. Besides the old city churches celebrating their hundredth-plus centennials, he had never seen a building with as many arches, towers, or pillars before. It grew larger as they approached, the countless windows draped in darkness except for a stained-glass pane that gleamed from the second floor. Craning to keep his eyes on it, the window was cut from his view as they passed beneath the terrace.

“Please exit.” The driver stated as they pulled to a stop.

The boy swallowed.

“Do I just go inside?” The driver did not answer, and despite their eyes being able to meet in the rearview mirror, the older gentleman stared ahead with steadfast resolution. “Sir?”

“Please exit.”  He repeated, and the boy knew he would get nothing more.

Hoisting his bag over a shoulder, he stepped out onto the pebbled ground. As soon as he shut the door the vehicle began to move, and he walked in its wake to watch it leave him behind. Alone now and at a loss for what to do next, he approached the front entrance, his stomach fluttering with nervous energy. Nobody had told him he would simply be abandoned here, and he wasn’t sure what to do next. Go inside? Knock?

Taking the few stairs ahead in a single stretched step, the boy neared the doors and looked up. They were massive; arched with sharp peaks at the top, the wood solid enough that he was sure not even a battering ram could break through. They were, he decided, the same sort of doors old castles must have had. Each one featured an enormous cast-iron knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, each one holding a heavy ring in their mouth, the metal discolored with splashes of green and brown. Below them were two ornate handles, a large keyhole under each and a lever that could be pulled to disengage the bolt.

He reached for the one on his left and tried to open it, but he found the door locked. The right one was no different. They were both sealed tight. Frowning, he grabbed one of the metal rings and knocked it firmly against the door four times. Then he waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

He knocked again, but as the minutes drew into half an hour, he knew that nobody was coming to let him inside. With a sigh, the boy sat down on one of the front steps and slid his bag off his shoulder. He would simply have to wait.

The next child arrived nearly an hour after him, and as the car drove away, leaving a new boy behind, the blond was greeted by an expression of sullen suspicion.

“Who are you?” The new boy asked, his hair dark and eyes darker, his skin a dusky complexion. He had a large backpack swinging from one hand, his other curled into a tight fist, ready for a fight.

“I’m Luther. What about you?”

“Diego. Wh—wh—why you sitting outside?”

“Door’s locked.” Luther answered with a shrug as he climbed to his feet then dusted off his bottom.

Diego’s left eyebrow rose.

“You try any other doors?”

“I don’t—” Luther started to answer that he wasn’t even sure if there were any other entrances, but then he realized it was silly of him to not even look. He was suddenly embarrassed, and a little mad that he hadn’t thought of exploring first. “No.” He said at last. “I didn’t.”

“Well I ain’t sitting out here all day.” Diego stated as he hoisted his bag onto his back.

And then he was walking away, along the side of the house towards the end with the tall tower. Luther snatched up his own bag and looped it over his shoulder before jogging after him. The sun beat down against their heads and necks as they circled the house, and Luther could feel his shirt start to dampen with sweat. It was going to be a hot and miserable day, that was for sure.

When they reached the side, Diego grinned over his shoulder.

“Told ya there’d be another wa—way in.” He boasted in spite of his stutter, leading them to the door.

He grabbed at it with one hand and pulled, but the door didn’t budge, and it wasn’t until he’d rattled it several times with both hands that he gave up with a sigh and took a step back.

“This is bullshit.” He grunted, turning around and walking back to the grass.

There was a set a narrow stairs leading up nearby, and Luther pointed to them.

“We could try there.” He suggested.

They did, finding yet another door, but as with the other two, the entrance was sealed. The boys finished their survey of the mansion’s exterior, but unless they planned to throw a rock through one of the windows, they were stuck outside. The pair trudged back to the front door and sat on the stairs beneath the shade.

“You know anything about this guy?” Diego asked, waving a hand towards the house behind him.

Luther shook his head.

“Only the name of the couple. Grace and Reginald.”

“They sound lame.”

“I think they sound nice.” Luther argued, trying to stay optimistic despite their being locked out. “Do you think that—”

“Shut up.” Diego interrupted, stretching his arm out to point. “Look. He’s coming back.”

The car that had brought them both here was indeed returning. They watched it in silence, both curious, and said nothing else as it slowly wound its way up the driveway and under the overhang. A moment later a girl climbed out of the backseat, pulling her bags out behind her, her skin dark and her hair a long curtain of black curls. When she turned, Luther licked his lips, his heart speeding a little at the sight of her face. She was so pretty, he thought, watching as she appraised the two of them, a large, patterned bag in one hand, a small suitcase in the other.

“What’s up with you two?” She asked.

“We’re locked out.” Luther answered.

“Looks like we—we’re housed with another asshole.” Diego added.

“What’s your name?” Luther asked her, unable to stifle his curiosity.

“Allison Due.”

“Luther. Diego.” He motioned to the boy beside him.

Allison gave an uninterested nod, then moved her luggage to the side of the stairs, out of the driveway. The boys watched as she unzipped her suitcase and pulled out a blanket, and they exchanged a glance of vague disbelief when she took it out to the grass and spread it out before laying down and closing her eyes. She folded her hands on her stomach and looked for all the world like a girl on some peaceful picnic in the park.

“What are you doing?” Diego called out to her, incredulous.

“Enjoying the sun.” She answered, having to raise her voice a little to be heard.

“Wh—why?” He continued.

“Better than brooding.”

Diego shook his head and looked to Luther.

“Girls.” He lamented, and Luther simply gave a shrug, part of him wanting to join her out there regardless of the heat and the sunburn he’d no doubt earn for it.

After another stretch of time the car returned with another boy around their age, the vehicle departing as soon as he was out. This boy was tall and lanky, pale like Luther but dark haired like Diego. He took them in, glanced at Allison who ignored them all, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit it, then slipped the lighter and box back in place, taking a long drag and exhaling before even saying a word.

“So what’s all this about?” He waved the cigarette in their general direction, his eyes wandering the exterior of the building, though he made no move to explore.

“Locked out.” Diego grunted.

“Right.” The new boy said, taking a second pull from the cigarette. “Sounds like another asshole. Big surprise there.”

“That’s what I said.” Diego agreed.

“Well I’m going to go take a look around then. See if there’s anything not nailed down and worth my time.”

“Say what now?” Luther asked as the new boy walked off.

“He’s looking for something to steal.” Diego explained with a smirk, then climbed to his feet. “Yo, wh—what’s your name?” He shouted at the other boy’s back.

“Klaus!” He responded with a yell without turning.

As the car returned again, the sun past its peak, Luther sighed, the only one watching it approach. Allison had shifted to laying on her stomach now and seemed to be dozing off while the other two were playing a game of War with the deck of cards Klaus had in his bag. The next boy that was dropped off looked at them with haughty disdain, his eyes passing over them all before giving the house a once over from where he stood, his dark hair swept back and sideways in a strangely professional way.

“Jesus.” He said at last. “How many kids does this bastard plan on collecting?”

“Probably needs as many checks as he can get to keep up a place this size.” Klaus answered offhandedly as he slapped down another card.

“Sounds about right.” The new boy agreed before walking his black suitcase over to the stairs and setting it down beside Allison’s. “I’ll assume you’ve already checked for other ways in?”

“All the other doors are locked.” Luther answered with a nod.

“Windows?”

“Those too.” Klaus added, and Luther felt out of his depth surrounded by people who were apparently okay with trying to break into a house through any means necessary outside of property damage.

“Great.”

“What’s your name?” Luther asked, hoping there’d be no discussion about trying to get in through some other way.

“Victor. But I’m not here to make friends, so let’s just skip the small talk. Okay?”

Another boy named Ben was the next to arrive, and he brought just as little fanfare, if not less, than the others. He’d shyly greeted them then tucked himself on the corner of the stairs, elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms. He was pensive, but seemed far nicer than Victor and less troublesome than Diego and Klaus. Allison had joined them beneath the shade by then as well, looking up to offer the new boy a smile as she filed her nails.

The sun was creeping closer to the horizon by the time the car returned one more time. Ben had been pulled into a card game by then. Allison and Luther had began exchanging stories of past foster homes. Victor remained off to the side, his arms crossed and face stoic. The car pulled up in front of them, and this time the engine cut off, drawing their attention. Another girl climbed out from the back, her brown hair long and straight, her eyes hidden beneath a set of bangs as she kept her head down, her small suitcase clutched in front of her with both hands. The man who had driven each of them there stood from the car as well, then walked around to the other side and looked at them each in turn.

“Come along.” He said simply as he threaded his way between them up the stairs, pulling a set of keys from his pocket as he went.

They all collected their belongings as he shoved a large, ornate key into one of the locks, the tumblers giving a heavy clank as they moved out of the way. The driver pushed the right-side door open then, and a waft of cold air brushed past, much to Luther’s relief. He looked up as he shouldered his bag, the interior too dark to discern with the setting sun bright against their backs. The older man walked in first, then stepped to the side and waved them onward.

Diego slipped inside ahead of everyone else, followed by Luther and then the others. As he stepped past the door, thoughts of the summer heat and the long wait faded behind him. The foyer was enormous. Bigger and grander than anything he’d ever seen before, and from the small sounds of surprise coming at his back, he wasn’t the only one awestruck. The grand staircase – too wide and tall and prominent to be named anything else – stopped at a midway landing, the wall behind it backlit by a row of arched, stain glass windows, a fading gold and green glow washing across the small stretch above them where two more sets of stairs broke away to lead even higher.

Sconces let off warm light from the walls, illuminating the shoulders and chests of two stone statues that stood inside inlets that sat in the walls where the room separated into one, two, three, four, five, six different paths. Luther couldn’t decide where to look first. Two more statues, these iron or brass, were sentinels at the bottom of the stairs, mirroring one another on either bannister. There was another figure down the hall to the right of the stairs, marble maybe, and countless other decorations that looked priceless and worthy of a museum.

“It’s like Dracula’s castle.” Ben whispered under his breath and Klaus snickered.

“Probably just some rich old per…” But Diego’s scathing remark dropped away as a woman entered into the foyer, her heels clicking against the floor with every step.

She wasn’t at all what Luther had been expecting. He had thought their foster mother would be old and cranky, living in a house like this, but she was the exact opposite. Her blonde hair was in a pretty updo, her dress was flared and brightly colored, and while she was already very beautiful, the kind smile on her face dazzled him in a way he had never experienced before. She looked so pleased to see them.

“Well hello there, children. I’m Grace, your new mother.” She greeted, hands clasped together as she took them all in. “I am so happy you’re all here. Now, you just leave your luggage right there. Mr. Abhijat and I will take them to your rooms later. In the meantime, Mr. Hargreeves is very excited to meet with you all, so please, follow me.”

Luther exchanged glances with Diego and Allison, but nobody spoke as they followed Grace while she ascended the stairs, their footsteps echoing through the foyer but getting absorbed by the greater house, as if it were swallowing down a taste and waiting for something more. Luther didn’t like the thought, but it was only a house, he reminded himself. And old, museum-like house sure, but nothing more than a house, and Mr. Hargreeves would be nothing more than one foster father among many.

Chapter Text

Not every house is a home. Many houses are nothing more than shells, waiting to be filled with the love, laughter, and tears of a family. They are wood and cement. They are empty pipes, plaster, and nails. They hold a memory of nothing beyond the sweat of those that labored to build them atop a blank foundation.

Some houses become homes that welcome people in, that embrace them with warmth and security. These houses will remember smiles and ballet dances down hallways. They’ll remember celebrations and lazy weekend breakfasts, happy announcements, moments of heartache, and busy weeks filled with a bustle of activity. They will keep children, parents, and pets safe. Secure. They’ll watch those that they protect grow old, and they will welcome a new family in to take their place.

But not every house.

Some houses remember only blood and tears. They remember cold interiors and screams in the night. They remember pain. Some houses are a prison. These houses confine those within and trap them behind unyielding stone and unfeeling walls. They shelter grief and sorrow; provide terror over comfort. Some houses are worse than a winter night without a roof overhead, worse than the unfriendly shared spaces of an overcrowded orphanage.

Some houses are never a home, and Vanya Scholokhova knows this about houses better than most.

She makes every effort to turn her small apartment into the home she never had as a child. She fills her modest space with music and the inviting smell of coffee, with flowers and books, with cable knit blankets and paintings she’s found at flea markets. She doesn’t have many smiles or reasons to laugh, so instead she lets her little corner of the world comfort her through tears of loneliness. She can’t often find joy, so instead she leans on her apartment when she’s worried and lets it cradle her anxiety until she can find the strength to get off the couch and carry on. It isn’t the place she always dreamt of as a child, but it’s the only home she’s ever had, and she loves it.

It’s imperfect, but it’s hers.

She doesn’t think of her childhood often these days. Instead, she keeps her mind occupied with practicing her violin, studying sheet music for concerts, and offering classes whenever she isn’t working or practicing. She doesn’t like to let herself sit and think. Her thoughts are rarely happy ones, and they have a tendency to wander where she doesn’t want them to. She doesn’t like the silence that births them. And so she medicates, and works, and practices, and studies, and teaches, and keeps herself engaged in any way that she can so that she doesn’t think about the things she shouldn’t.

She has done this for years, and she has gotten very good at it.

“Vanya, I can’t do this anymore.” Leonard says from the other end of the phone as she leans against the wall, her forehead against the cool plaster as she wraps the coiled cord around a finger.

She knows. She’s been expecting this for weeks now. Her relationship with Leonard has never been one of passion or love. He met her during violin lessons and asked her out, and she was so flattered by the attention, by his attraction to her, that she went along with it. It’s how all her relationships begin; desperate and needy, hungry for whatever scrap of affection she can find. Her partners mistake that for more than it is, at least for a time. Now, almost a year later, he is tired of her. Bored and frustrated, confused about why she won’t stop taking her medication if it makes her so numb and so scattered, why she won’t adjust the dosage or ask for something else, why she’s so content to live in this fog and keep it between them.

He doesn’t understand of course. He doesn’t understand how her unfettered thoughts have a habit of drifting to the past or how terrible her anxiety can grow in the lonely silence of her apartment. He can never empathize with the sick taste in the back of her throat that rises when the phone rings from a number she doesn’t recognize, a number that might tell her he’s overdosed again. He can’t understand why she won’t trust anyone with her tender heart and fragile ego. It’s better to protect them both beneath a medicinal shield, better to hide behind a dispassionate wall, dependable in all its impassive fortitude because otherwise she might start crying and never stop.

She should feel hurt by his confession. Sad. Heartbroken. But she doesn’t.

“I understand.” She says simply.

And she does.

She knows that being with her is a chore. Everyone leaves eventually. Her boyfriends, her girlfriends, her foster families, and fair-weather friends. Even the only person she can consider as close to a brother as possible keeps her at arm length with his own brand of lies, self-medication and penchant for chemical self-harm. This is something she’s grown used to; something she expects. Nothing is safe. Nobody stays. And caring for people only brings pain.

“Can’t you just…” Leonard struggles to find the words and she can picture the frown weighing on his brows. “Dammit Vanya, can’t you fight for me? For us? That’s all you’ve got to say? That you understand?”

“I…” But she can’t think of what to say next, can’t articulate that she can never give him what he wants, that she can never be who he needs. “I’m sorry.”

And she is. In her own way.

“Yeah.” He sighs, the sound heavy with defeat. “Me too. I’ll drop your things off this weekend. Goodbye Vanya.”

“Goodbye Leonard.”

They hang up, and the silence in her apartment is louder than before. It swells like some living thing, pressing against her, swallowing everything. She looks across the room to where her violin is sitting; a lifeline in the abyss. She misses him already. No. Not him exactly. She misses the touch and kind words; misses how the empty space inside of her was filled with a feeble joy. That feeling has evaporated, and she’s left with that endless pit again. With a sigh of her own, she goes to the violin and fills the pit with music, concentrating on every note and working her fingers until they are red and tender. Time passes. Night falls. She takes a pill. She submits to dreamless sleep.

Her next day passes much the same as the ones before, but her sweet veil of dissociation is parted when she looks at the mail that she collected on her way upstairs. There’s a letter, the addresses handwritten, and as she reads where it came from her mouth goes dry and her heart gives a sudden thud. How did they find me? She wonders as she stares at the name in the top left corner, unable to look away from it. Why did they find me?

Hargreeves.

The surname makes her shudder as something bubbles up from that deep well inside of her. A distant scream echoes from the past… the sound of running feet… somebody grabs her arm.

She was at the back of the group as they shuffled into the mansion, the children and home ahead of her strangers. Already she felt like an outsider among them, the others talking and playing together upon her arrival, no doubt already introduced and forming bonds. She wasn’t even provided the luxury of an introduction, and as the heavy door closed at their backs, filling the foyer with a resounding clang, she worried that opportunity might have passed forever. What if nobody wanted to be friends with her at all? Her arrival brought them to an odd number, and she was already intimate with the concept of being an odd man out. Vanya set her bag down beside the rest and then followed the group up the steps as Grace led them forward.

“Maybe we were wrong.” The only other girl in their midst whispered to a blond boy.

“Puh-lease.” The tall and lanky boy answered before the blond could. “Now I’m thinking he’s a Hefner instead of a Hitler.”

“Or both.” The darker skinned boy added.

“Gross.” The girl commented. “But wouldn’t be surprising.”

“Who cares?” A morose looking boy with slicked back hair snapped. “I give this six-months. Tops.”

“If that.” Another boy said, his hands buried in his pockets and shoulders hunched. “This place is a museum.”

Vanya wished she could join in, but while she understood that they were speaking about their new foster father, she wasn’t sure why they used the Hitler reference if they’d never met him. Before she could think on it further, they reached the door that Grace had been leading them towards. Hugging herself, the cold atmosphere and strange newness of everything chilling her bones, Vanya stood behind the others as Grace pushed open the door.

The memory passes just as quickly as it came on. With a deep breath in, Vanya opens the letter.

In another city, in another state, Victor King receives a similar letter. It’s sitting in his inbox as he falls into his office chair with a dissatisfied grunt. He’s grown to hate this place, hate his colleagues and fellow researchers, but the pay is great, and the commute isn’t as shitty as it could be. After considering how he might sneak out the building for lunch without being harassed by anyone, he leans forward to grab his mail.

“Trash. Trash. Bill. Fuck you. Trash.” He stops when he sees the letter, the addresses handwritten, but not in the script he’s used to seeing.

R. Hargreeves., in care of Dr. C. Pogo.

A funny feeling stirs in his chest. Anticipation? Dread? He isn’t sure.

“Well. Isn’t this interesting.”

He slips a fingertip in the crevice between the sealed flap and the body of the envelope, then slides it up and across until an opening is torn. Plucking out the letter, he unfolds it and leans back into his chair, the leather and metal creaking ever so slightly.

To Number Five:

Dear boy, I hope this letter reaches you well. While it has been many years since our last communication, as I understand it you were in frequent correspondence with Sir Reginald over these many years. It is therefore that I write to you with a heavy heart and the deepest of regrets to announce that the great Sir Reginald Hargreeves has passed away.

I am well aware that there was no formal adoption, but as executor of your late foster father’s will and testament, I must inform you that Sir Hargreeves has named you among his inheritors. This bequeathment does not come without stipulation, as I’m sure comes as no surprise. To qualify for this inheritance your appearance is required at House Hargreeves for a stay of no less than one week, during which time memorial and funereal proceedings will occur, as well as a reading of Sir Reginald’s will and the distribution of estate items to include unproductive property along with documents for intangible properties. A more comprehensive schedule of the events will be provided upon arrival.

I understand that financial disbursements may have little interest to you, but it should be noted that in addition to monetary gains there is a swath of intellectual property that Sir Reginald has left to you alone. Further details can be shared in person, but I’m sure you can surmise which records would be included.

Please feel free to take twenty-four hours to consider. Sir Reginald’s private wake will be held on the twenty-fifth, but there will be a quiet memorial the day prior for you and your foster siblings. A letter of similar language has been sent to the others, all of them, so even if you have little want for the fortunes he is leaving behind, I am certain a long-overdue reunion would not be unwelcome.

I have provided my contact information below. If you agree to visit House Hargreeves, please call the number listed and arrangements for your travel will be made.

I eagerly await your reply.

Most respectfully yours,

Dr. C. Pogo

Victor reads the letter two more times, then sets it down on his desk and stands, heading for the small liquor cabinet nestled amidst his bookshelves. He pours two fingers of whiskey and tips them back, then pours one more and sits back down, contemplating the letter.

Hargreeves, dead. It has always seemed impossible despite the man’s increasing age over the years. Victor has always believed somewhere deep down that the asshole had somehow solved the trivial matter of mortality. Apparently not. Knowing this makes the corner of his lip twitch with pleasure. Good riddance.

While he may have always hated the man and that house, he knows he will go. Beyond professional courtesy and respect, the records teased in the letter are too valuable to ignore. Contemplating a return, he looks down into the glass of amber liquid and considers the first time he laid eyes on Sir Reginald-fucking-Hargreeves.

Grace opened the tall wooden door to reveal a dark study lit only by the flickering flames sat in a fireplace and the soft glow from a banker’s desk lamp. She urged them in, but the lot of them stopped only a foot or so beyond the door. The man behind the desk was old and oddly unremarkable. His face wasn’t friendly or mean, just slack and unresponsive, even as Grace introduced their arrival.

“The children, sir.”

Hargreeves didn’t acknowledge their entrance as his hand continued to write in a notebook of some kind, a single monocle balanced in his right eye socket. His hair was gray and white, combed back, and he wore a nicely trimmed mustache and goatee along with what was likely an expensive suit, complete with tie, even though he was alone and it was nearly day’s end. They stood there in silence, waiting for him to look up, and Victor could feel himself losing what little patience he had. If the asshole was too busy for them, he thought, then why send for them at all? It was a clear display of power, and he hated it. Crossing his arms, he pursed his lips and cleared his throat, unwilling to stand there all night.

The old man finally looked up at the sound, and Victor felt his throat tighten a little with apprehension, which only made him that much angrier. Hargreeves swept his gaze across them with lingering purpose, then dropped his eyes again and began to write once more. Victor saw some of his fellow inmates’ exchange glances from the corner of his eyes, but before he could make his own displeasure known again a single word rang across the room.

“Dismissed.” Hargreeves announced, and a second later Grace was ushering them back out and into the hallway, a pleasant smile fixed on her face as if she too hadn’t been kicked out like some worthless animal.

Victor finishes off the drink in his hands and licks his lips, enjoying the sharp, sweet bite that’s warm on his tongue and in his throat. Yeah. Hargreeves had been a dick from the very first moment, and it had only gotten worse from there. He reconsiders going as he stands to fill his glass again, wondering if pissing on the old man’s grave and getting all his research is even worth the hassle of a trip back out to that house of horrors. As he brings the bottle back to his desk, he calls up the department receptionist.

“Tell everyone I’m out for the rest of the day,” he says. “I’m about to have a hell of a headache.”

In only a few cities away from House Hargreeves, Klaus McCammon pauses in surprise as he passes by the front desk of rehab number oh-who-even-knows anymore. He’s barely managed to pocket his fifth 30-day coin when the receptionist’s announcement brings him to a full stop.

“Come again?” He asks her with a frown, sure that he must have misheard.

“I said you have mail.” She holds an envelope out to him. “Here.”

Klaus stares at it, feeling like it might bite him should he accept. Who the hell would send him something? And how would they know where he is? Almost everyone he knows in life would rather steal stamps than use them, so who in their right mind had sat down and banged out a letter, going so far as to actually send it. Two names come to mind, but he doesn’t have the heart to think of either of them, the bridges between him and them not just on fire, but still a flaming heap of beautiful garbage shimmering in the distance.

“Who’s it from?” He asks, refusing to take it yet.

The woman sighs, then flips the mail over to read the front.

“Hargreeves, in care of Pogo. Now take the damn thing already, will you? I’m going to toss it otherwise.”

His balls feel like they retract into his body and a tremor tickles Klaus’s hand as he reaches out and takes the letter. The joy and freedom he’d felt less than ten seconds before is a forgotten husk as the darkness of things forgotten chews at his peripheral vision. It squeezes in closer so that only the note and the tightness in his chest exists. He can feel his own heart beating. He can hear the beats in his ears.

“Are you okay?” A distant voice asks, echoing off stone while a biting cold stabs at his back and butt because try as he might, he can’t get the walls to absorb him and shield him from the monstrosities reaching out to grab hold.

Klaus shakes off the sensation and laughs as the prickle of tears burn at the corner of his eyes, a growing fear building up and ready to burst in a bout of hysteria. His breath begins to pump in and out, faster than before as the shadows stretch and grope and demand. He feels alone, scared, childish. He backs away a step, sure that a stone wall would be there to stop him, but instead he bumps into a warm body.

“Hey!” A startled shout shakes him from the waking nightmare and Klaus twirls around to face the sound, the blood drained from his face as he shivers and pants. “What the hell man?”

But Klaus isn’t listening.

He needs air, needs the open fucking sky above his head. Without another word he tears out of the building and stumbles onto the street, the envelope crushed in his fist as he bends forward to catch his breath and calm down. In. Out. In. Out. You got this buddy, he tells himself, just breathe right? Not hard.

Once he feels calm enough to face the surprise in hand, Klaus straightens and stares down at it. Hargreeves. He hasn’t given that name a second thought for years now, not since he tried banking off that book fallout, and even then, the name’s blunt force trauma was cushioned by quite a few barbiturates. Fuck. What a shit time to be sober. He wonders if anyone else got one.

He shoves the crumpled letter in his pocket and heads down the street. He had intended to try and stay sober for a little while this time – a lie he tells himself often, and one that flickers out at the first sign of trouble or temptation – but now more than ever he needs a little extra something to face whatever is waiting for him in that note. Just a pick-me-up, that’s all. With a sigh he plucks the 30-day coin out of his pocket, gives it a kiss, then flicks it off into the road where it lands with a quiet tink before rolling down a storm drain.

So much for that. And with no regret or hesitation, Klaus makes his way down the road towards a very familiar alley, an alley where all his best friends are waiting for him.

As Klaus spends his last twenty bucks on a distraction, Allison glares out of her window to the row of vans and strangers waiting along the sidewalk outside her home. There’s only a narrow fence keeping the vultures at bay, and she hates every one of the scavengers who are salivating at the chance to snap up some juicy photo of her for the front page of whatever slimy tabloid they’re selling to. Her lip curls, and she turns back to her living room, letting the curtain fall shut while she cradles a glass of wine.

The room is empty. Acknowledging that makes her stomach turn.

Only a few months ago her daughter’s laughter over cartoons had bounced off the walls. Now its absence has turned that once bothersome sound into something she longs for. Part of her regrets not making him stay. She could have. As easily as anything. But another part of her feels sick and disgusting for even contemplating it. It is that very need for control, that very desire for immediate gratification that has brought her to this point in her life. She hates herself for it, and yet she still wishes she would have made him stay.

Is anything in your goddamn life even real?

His question resounds in her mind again, but she pushes it out. What does he know anyway?

Walking back to the kitchen for a refill, her eyes pass over a crayon drawing on the fridge before latching onto the letter she has pinned there beside it. She had almost forgotten about it after the meeting with the lawyers and arguing about custody and then getting bombarded with the paparazzi at her front door. Number Three… The old name captures her attention, and she stares at it. Hargreeves may have been a monster, but he’s certainly played a part in her success in life; that much she cannot deny. And he’s dead now. She’d once suffered nightmares from her time under his care, but those years are long gone, and she can’t help but wonder if the others will show up. It isn’t like she has any reason to stay home, she considers, glancing up at the drawing her daughter had made.

As Allison pulls another bottle off the counter and uncorks it, she wonders what the press might say about a swift and sudden departure.

While she pours another glass to mull over her decision, Diego del Toro throws a knife at the wall while he considers his own. The blade buries itself in the giant cork target he has pinned here, slicing one of the words from his own letter straight in half, the note pinned in place by a bat-shaped throwing star. Motherfucking Hargreeves. Dead. It’s hard to believe, even after all this time. Still, it’s no great loss, Diego thinks as he goes to retrieve the knife. The man had been a monster after all, and he isn’t sad about the passing despite part of him wondering what the old man might think of his current lifestyle.

“Asshole would probably approve.” He grunts, tearing the knife free with a mixture of disgust and pride.

Old pain clenches his heart for a moment as he thinks of blonde hair and a beautiful smile he hasn’t seen since his last days in that house. He still isn’t sure what happened that horrible night to twist things in the way they’d been, but the unending nightmares it created wake him to sweat soaked covers even to this day. He looks at the knife in his hand, and for a brief moment he wants to drop it and back away. He fights the urge however, then pivots and throws it forward in what others might have called a blind maneuver.

The knife strikes home though, landing across the room and into a wooden support beam set in the middle of his basement studio, buried between two other knives with frightening accuracy. Pride flutters in his chest, and he can’t help but think what Number One would think of him these days. With Hargreeves gone, his once foster-brother might be the only true measure of success in life.

Turning back to the target, he rips the letter free and carries it to the bed before bending down and pulling a canvas duffel bag from below. As he begins to pack, he makes a point to ignore the framed picture lying flat to conceal Eudora’s smile, or the legal documents he’s meant to look over for the review he has coming up. Going to his dresser for socks and boxers, his eyes can’t help but land on the empty space where his gun and badge used to sit. A flash of indignation flares hot in his stomach before he turns his back and shoves his clothes down into the bottom of his bag.

As Diego finishes packing, Luther Jackson stares at his own small suitcase as it sits near the door. It’s carrying enough for five days, and he is eager to leave, to go home. He’s the only one of his foster siblings who ever understood the importance and magnitude of their foster father’s work, and he is the only one who can legally call the man father, not that it was ever allowed. He wasn’t even afforded the same surname, but he isn’t bitter about that anymore. Not at all. He sighs, then paces back and sits at his kitchen table, a small television on the counter displaying poor-quality coverage of celebrity drama. He doesn’t usually watch this drivel, but he’s been following Allison’s career for years now.

His hands sweat simply considering the possibility that she might show up to the memorial. He hasn’t talked to her since they were all split apart by the system again, but as soon as he saw the preview for her first movie, he’d recognized her immediately. He’d considered writing to her over the years, but he had never gotten the courage to go through with it. He wonders what she will think about the fact that he’d gone back to Hargreeves after everything. He wonders what she would think if she ever saw all the scars on his body. It’s still difficult to face his own reflection some days and he’s long since removed the mirror from the bathroom. He’s never been with another woman, and he can’t help but think about being with her, their stolen kisses in dark hallways and empty rooms seared into his brain.

He will return to House Hargreeves of course. To bury his father. To take care of the man’s last wishes. He has to. But he wonders if the others will show as well. He wonders what he will say to them after all this time. He wonders what Dr. Pogo meant in his letter about the circumstances of his father’s death being curious in nature…