My very very first attempt at Umbrella Academy fic. I might eventually extend this into something longer if enough people are interested in the concept. Content Warnings: canon death of a minor character, war, vomiting Title is from "Postcards From Hell" by Josh Woodward "And when I get to the place where the men are just shells and the whole world is cracked like the Liberty Bell I will send you a postcard from Hell."
He almost resists. When he gets his orders he almost goes and flings them in The Handler's face and tells her that this is pointless, that the calculations are off.
He wants to tell her that there are enough people dying there already. Let this kid get himself killed on his own time. Somehow it feels wrong adding to the mass bloodshed of war. Somehow this war feels too much like whatever the hell was brewing in his own timeline before he disappeared from it.
How can one more small man dying on the front lines of a war be enough to change the timeline so drastically? What kind of man is unlucky enough to avoid the hail of enemy bullets, only to be murdered for a tenuous common good that even Number Five isn't able to see?
But of course he obeys orders. He doesn't have a choice. He's biding his time, trying to get back. Better not to rock the boat until he can risk it.
He goes. He shoots. He kills. Just a little more blood on his hands. It shouldn't matter. It does, somehow, but it shouldn't.
It's years later (and no time at all later, because time isn't real anymore), before Klaus—Sober Klaus, who has finally come into his powers—tells him the story of the man he loved and lost in Vietnam. And finally Number Five understands. He sees the ripples. He knows the impact of one more man lying dead in the trenches.
He blinks out of the room, excusing himself to go and vomit.
And it's Klaus that finds him there, too, because he has long years of experience and intimate familiarity with all of the toilet bowls in the Hargreeves manor. And it's Klaus, kinder and more stable and more powerful than he's been in years, who rubs his shoulders and asks him what's wrong.
And Number Five smiles weakly, wipes his mouth, and lies through his teeth.
"Nothing. Throw out the roast beef in the refrigerator, will you?"
Klaus cringes in sympathy and nods, wandering off to warn the others away from leftover related disasters.
"Get some rest," he calls over his shoulder before he leaves the bathroom.
Number Five nods, which is another lie. He's not sure he's ever going to be able to sleep again.