#silververse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

paperpocalypse · 2 years

Text

case 254.

50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts: 1. There’s people chasing us and I pulled you into the alley with me and wow you’re close Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader Word Count: 1,591 words Warnings: Swearing, violence

You are, by all accounts, married to your work.

And you are a loyal lover. The briefcase is your certificate, the bullets your vows. You keep them close wherever you go. Twenty-four years in the Commission is nothing to sneeze at, and you have never – not once – been unfaithful.

… Not in action, at least. Recent thoughts of retirement have begun tempting you to the point of an emotional affair.

(You’d get married, maybe. To a person, not a job. Live in a one-story home with a pond in the backyard and not too far from the nearest Walmart, adopt a little dog that you and your spouse spoil to bits. You’d die peacefully in your sleep instead of bleeding out in an alleyway somewhere.)

“Shit.”

Coughing, you spit and wipe your mouth with the cuff of your sleeve. Damn Arnie made you bite your own tongue.

“The police will be here any minute!” he yells through the walls, and something clatters to the ground. “You can’t make me go back!”

“I’m not making you go back, Arn,” you call back, exasperated. “I got an order to kill you.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

You chuckle and stumble back to your feet.

Arnold had been a loyal employee of the Temps Commission for twenty years. He specializes in 18th century weaponry, his kill count is in the hundreds, and he relies on cigarettes in the same way you rely on coffee. He is also a friend of yours – or the closest thing a Temps assassin can have to a friend – and that’s probably why the Board sent you to kill him.

They had given you two days. You had promised one.

It’s been three.

“You shouldn’t have tried to sell your briefcase to the military, Arnie!”

Arnie doesn’t reply. The squeal and slam of a door grates on your ears, and you swear aloud, rushing to the bathroom.

You break the door open and don’t hesitate to fire in quick succession, just barely missing a shoe slipping from the windowsill.

Clicking your tongue, you pause.

“Dammit.”

Something small and cylindrical is lobbed through the window, bouncing and rolling to a stop at your feet.

“Dammit!”

You book it out of the bathroom, rounding a corner and diving to the ground just as the grenade explodes. The floor shivers. You cover your ears and hold your breath.

If people had ignored the ruckus beforehand, they certainly can’t now.

Panting, you scrape yourself off the floor, reaching back to pull your Glock out and heading back to the bathroom. “Son of a bitch …”

Smoke and burst pipes and rubble are all that remains of the bathroom. Your heart drops to your stomach when you recognize the guts of your Commission briefcase among the rubble. This has got to be the second-worst fumble of your career; you should’ve thrown the briefcase out first and then run out. Your rifle is a lost cause too.

Shaking your head, you approach the gaping hole in the wall and slowly clamber down the side of the building. Arnold couldn’t have gotten far, not with a concussion and the bullet in his leg. Thank goodness. You don’t have as much stamina for high-speed chases as you used to.

The same moment that you land on a patch of broken bricks and dirt, the sound of a gunshot resonates behind you.

You immediately whip around, firing a shot into Case 254’s head before you can even register that his back had been facing you.

Arnold collapses, dead, onto the ground a few meters away from you. Your lips part. You quickly look back up and keep your gun poised.

A man points his rifle back at you.

“Got him before you did,” he tells you, voice low and gruff.

There’s a briefcase at his feet.

“Did the Board think I couldn’t handle this one?” you ask, aiming between the man’s eyes. You like the way he speaks, even though it pisses you off. He’s confident. “Or do they think I defected too?”

“Did you?” he challenges.

Not in ways they can punish. “If I did, Arnie wouldn’t have tried to blow me up with an MK3.”

“… Humph.”

Sirens are getting ever louder. The two of you lower your weapons; you’re no longer wary of this fellow assassin, but the glare he’s fixing you with makes you want to rile him up.

“Tell me your name, hotshot,” you say, walking over to Arnold and rummaging through his clothes.

He grunts sourly. “Why would I tell you anything?”

“To make conversation.” You find some loose change and a coupon for a tanning salon – alright – but what you’re really interested in is the copy of the briefcase’s blueprints. You pocket everything. “It stimulates the mind. I think you might need that in your old age.”

When you face the man fully again, he rolls his eyes.

Then he literally disappears into thin air.

You blink. The dots connect as quickly as the flaring lights of police cars shine around the corners of the building, and a frenzied laugh escapes your lips.

“What a gentleman.”

Guess the rumors were right – the Commission’s new darling, Five, is a genius as well as an asshole.

On the other side of the apartment complex, the detective tells officers to surround the building. You quickly put your gun away and take off before they reach the back.

“I heard someone running! Over here!”

You run until you reach a chain-link fence, locating a spot where the mesh had peeled away from the post and slipping through with gritted teeth. The air inside your mask weighs on your skin, hot and thick from your heavy breathing. Your feet already hurt. You should’ve invested in those gel insoles Arnold told you about before he decided to defect.

“Stop! This is the police!”

You hold back a groan. You’re getting too old for this shit.

But you keep going anyways. You keep running, turn a corner and cut through back alleys, knock out the few people you pass who are unlucky enough to be out at two in the morning. And for some reason, they keep pursuing you, getting closer and closer –

You hear something like a muffled pop of air. A hand grips your arm and drags you into an alley.

You scramble for your Glock, but as soon as your fingers brush its handle, it disappears. Five pushes you down behind a dumpster and shoves a hand up your mask to cover your mouth. It takes everything in you to keep from gagging when you land on a trash bag way too wet-sounding for your liking.

“Quiet.”

You huff, tearing his hand away. Your arm is pinned against his sternum, your head much too close to his. His breathing is quiet, measured, and slow.

(He’s used to this. Used to running, used to hiding, just like you.)

Five runs warm. You like it in the same way that you like the way he speaks.

Footsteps hurry past your hiding place, then fade into the distance.

After waiting about ten more minutes, you let your head knock back against the wall. “Shit.” You chuckle. “I owe you one, Mr. Five.”

Five doesn’t acknowledge your gratitude. Instead, he pushes himself away from you and drops your Glock into your lap, then grabs his briefcase and stands up. Though you resent the loss of heat, you join him with a more appropriate amount of space between the two of you.

“I’ll take you back to headquarters,” Five states, sounding as if his teeth are about to be pulled.

“Thank you kindly,” you reply. “It must be my lucky day, getting my hide saved and escorted by the Commission’s rising star.”

“I’m sure.” His tone is dry.

Sirens wail as you tell him your name.

“I know,” Five mutters, unclipping the briefcase. “You were mentioned in the kill order for your pal back there.”

Ah. You nod, smiling a bit tightly, and put your hands on the briefcase as well. “Of course.”

A flash, and you’re both back in 1955, the sun too bright and the air too stale. You feel the beginnings of a headache.

“Still hate time travel after twenty plus years,” you comment, letting go. “Did using your powers have the same effect?”

Five regards you silently, lips pursed. “Hard to recall,” he finally says, snapping the briefcase shut.

“The lab’s developing some meds for the side effects. Apparently, they’re doing trial runs soon.”

“That so.”

“Yes.” You squint up at HQ, brush off your suit, and exhale loudly. “Anyway, I better get going. See you later, Mr. Five.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Just Five is fine.”

“See you later, Five,” you emphasize with a grin. “Maybe we’ll be able to team up in the future.”

All he does is cast you an unimpressed glance before disappearing through one of his teleportation portal things.

You stare at the now empty space and sigh, putting your hands on your hips. Well, the apocalypse doesn’t exactly make one a good conversationalist. (Either that, or he finds you insufferable.)

As you stroll into the Commission building to turn in the briefcase blueprint and procure another briefcase, you think of your life so far. You think of your marriage to your work, of the sleepless honeymoon stage and the bitter taste of the past ten years. You think of that dark alley, of that moment of companionship, one-sided though it was.

And maybe you find yourself just a little more unfaithful.

#cliché tropes and prompts #source: bucky-plums-barnes #five hargreeves imagine #five hargreeves x reader #the umbrella academy five #the umbrella academy #tua #five x reader #five imagine #tua fanfic #fanfic #reader insert #silververse #s3 coming out tomorrow babey !!#forgive me for the person i am about to become

848 notes · View notes

paperpocalypse · 4 years

Text

french press.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”: 48. Getting them a coffee just the way they like it.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,375 words

Warning: Swearing

Five is a man of simple tastes. Always has been. He’s never asked for needless things because they are exactly that, and even as a child, he had found the idea of chasing extravagance a waste of time.

Five is a man of simple tastes.

But he’d rather stick his head inside a wasp nest than drink instant coffee two nights in a row.

“If you don’t breathe when you drink it, it tastes less like dirt,” you say from your bed, a Styrofoam cup in one hand and the kill order in the other. When he looks up from loading his gun, you lift your cup in a toast. “How about it, Five?”

“I’ll pass,” he replies sardonically.

“But what about your withdrawals?”

“I don’t get any.”

A pause. “I have some aspirin, you know. For headaches.”

Five returns your smile with a close-lipped one of his own, slamming the magazine into place. “Good for you.”

You just hum, maintaining eye contact with him as you down the rest of your beverage. To his mild satisfaction, your smile morphs into a grimace at the taste.

Good.

“Deaux should be getting back from the bar by now.” He looks over the log the two of you had written yesterday. “You remember the plan?”

You toss your cup into the trash. “Of course. Home invasion.” Your tone flattens into something more serious – as it usually does when you talk about work. You check your pistol and tuck it into your holster. “Should be in-and-out. He’ll be drunk as a skunk.”

And dead as a doornail. “You’re driving this time?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you say.

Five rolls his eyes as you give him a cheeky grin. After making sure everything’s been gathered up – which isn’t much of a task, given how little either of you possess – Five checks the two of you out of the motel and heads down to the car.

As he settles into the passenger seat, Commission briefcase at his feet and rifle case in his lap, you put the keys into the ignition and turn on the radio. Classical music – the one genre you both agree on.

(It’s a violin concerto and he thinks of Vanya.)

Your fingers drum the wheel softly in time with the music. “I love driving through small towns at night,” you murmur, exiting the decrepit parking lot. “There’s no hassle at all …”

He just grunts in acknowledgement, eyeing you while you flip the signal to turn. A kind of lightness sticks to your expression like plaster; Five indulges in contemplating it for a moment. For someone who’s worked for the Commission for almost thirty years, you’ve never struck him as the assassin type in between assignments. You’re too genuine. Too friendly.

You’re damn good at compartmentalizing, he’ll give you that.

You brake at the stop sign right before the street where Deaux lives. No cars are in sight. The violinist starts a series of runs.

“That coffee was terrible.”

“’Shit’ would be more accurate.”

You snort.

By the time the house comes into view, the concerto isn’t anywhere near finished, so he turns it down to the lowest volume and waits for it to cut off along with the engine. Dead quiet. This is the best part, Five thinks to himself – the calm before the storm.

Next to him, you straighten your jacket. The weak moonlight casts your face in an eerie glow. “Doing the honors this time?” you murmur, getting your mask from the back.

“Sure,” he responds.

As Five exits the car and approaches the front door with you, he disregards, with irritation, the warnings of a headache. Son of a bitch. He can deal with it.

—

Drunk as a skunk, dead as a doornail – killing Jean Deaux is the easiest assignment the two of you have had all week. After taking the toaster and some other things of relative value, you throw them into the trunk of the car, drive it into the woods, and then head to 1985 Chicago for your next assignment.

The time travel turns what should’ve been a minor headache into a goddamn migraine. The jetlag hits him right after, so when Five opens the door to your shared room, he pulls his hat off and takes the nearest bed. It’s about two in the morning. He has some time to nap it off.

However, when he hears you dump the briefcase onto your bed and start towards the door, he summons enough energy to say your name. “Where are you going?” he grouses.

You wave him back. “To get a lay of the land,” you say, keeping your voice low. “You go get some shut-eye.”

Your words make him grimace inside. He doesn’t need your pity. But for once, Five doesn’t have the energy to go back and forth with you, so he simply grunts and allows his eyes to close again. The door clicks as you leave.

The next thing he knows, he smells coffee.

“Morning again, partner.”

Your voice sounds very close. When Five opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is your face just a foot away from his.

“Jesus Christ.” He sits up, swearing more when his head protests it violently.

“Nope, just me.” You smile as he rubs his face. “But I do have coffee. The real kind.”

That’s when he notices the steaming cup in your hand that says Ivy’s Café on the cardboard sleeve. You offer it to him, and after scrutinizing you for an ulterior motive – it’s still instinctive after forty odd years, though in the back of his mind, he knows you’re simply being yourself – he takes it.

You open your other hand to reveal two small, round pills. Meeting your knowing gaze only briefly, he takes them as well.

“Thanks,” he mutters, chasing down the aspirin with a gulp of coffee.

As soon as the first drop hits his tongue, Five wonders where Ivy’s Café is. His eyebrows pinch together as he swallows. Smooth and rich, hot but not scalding. No sugar, no cream.

Exactly the way he likes it.

“I know I’m enabling your coffee addiction, but –” you shrug as he takes another sip – “we don’t have the luxury of quitting.”

“Coffee or the Commission?”

Your smile becomes slightly cynical. “Both, I guess.”

Five huffs out an equally dry chuckle, filing your answer away for later. To his relief, the throbbing in his head is starting to wane.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “I’m guessing I did right by the coffee.”

“You did.”

“Their croissants look good, too. Not as good as the ones in France, but still up there.” You stand up, swiping the kill order from the nightstand to skim over it. “We’re not so crunched for time anymore, so we could go there for lunch.”

The stream of coffee abruptly tapers off. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he murmurs, narrowing his eyes at the empty cup. He blinks over to the trashcan to throw it away.

“Great. It’s a date, then.”

What. When he turns around, giving you a stiff look, you wave your hands dismissively.

“In a completely platonic sense, of course,” you amend.

“Are you ready to go?” Five finds it appropriate to change the subject, not liking the way your words ring in his mind. You know about Delores. He’s not interested at all, if that is what you’re implying.

Your hands lower. “… Yeah, I’m ready.” He looks in the mirror to adjust his tie, and after a moment, your reflection approaches his. “Look,” you say, “I’m sorry about that comment. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Five holds your gaze, smoothing his tie out, and the guilt in your expression causes him to sigh. You really are too genuine. “Just don’t do it again,” he replies, less brusque than before. “Let’s just put some hours in before lunch.”

Ruefulness touches the corners of your smile. You nod. Five nods back, and as the two of you leave the motel room, he thinks, no, it won’t be a date. His loyalty still lies with someone else, and you’re his business partner and that’s how it should be. Simple as that.

But he’ll pay for lunch. It’s only fair.

#wordless ways to say i love you #source: @50-item-writing-prompts #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves imagine #the umbrella academy five #the umbrella academy #tua #five x reader #five imagine #tua fanfic #fanfic #reader insert #fluff #the target's name was jean deaux #geddit #silververse #unrequited feelings #for now ;)

442 notes · View notes