"I Will Send You a Postcard from Hell" got way more attention than I anticipated, so it's time to tell the whole story. I highly recommend reading the first fic, as it is the one that lays out the context.

I hope you enjoy! Thanks to friends on Discord for inspiring me to write!

Number Five entered rooms without knocking a solid 75% of the time. Vanya didn't really blame him. All of those years spent in solitude had instilled upon him the feeling of being the last person on earth.

Although she suspected he had felt like the last person on earth long before the apocalypse.

The click of the door made her start. Her bow jumped on the strings of her violin, striking an ugly and dissonant chord. The room quaked for half a moment. A picture fell from a shelf.

"Shit," she whispered. The worst part about coming to this new (old?) timeline had been Luther's refusal to let her touch her violin for almost a month after. She didn't want to do anything to jeopardize the privilege.

Fortunately, Number Five seemed perpetually unfazed by her powers. Rather than commenting on her slip, he picked the picture up, righted it on the shelf, and said, "We need to talk."

"We do?" She still hadn't learned to shake the feeling of surprise when one of her siblings singled her out for conversation.

"Do you remember," he began, taking a seat on her bed, "When I said I needed to talk to you because you were ordinary?"

"Yes," she said, a little defensive. She attempted not to brandish her bow like a piece of weaponry, and failed. Again he didn't seem to notice.

"Now I need to talk to you because you aren't."

"None of us are ordinary," Vanya reminded him. And didn't that feel strange to say?

"I know," he said, fidgeting and impatient. He was anxious about something, and it wasn't a good look for him. "But I need to talk to you. Because you're the only other one of us who is a murderer."

"Five," she said, her voice cracking towards the end of his name, "I don't think I—I don't want—" She could feel panic starting like a cold fire in the pit of her stomach and clawing its way up into her throat. Technically, he was correct (even if the deaths had been a timeline ago, and even if she had barely understood her own power at the time). But being reminded of them made her hands shake. She twitched her fingers over the strings of her violin, plucking aimlessly at them. It was just an old nervous habit, and it meant nothing. Even so, Number Five finally leaned forward and took the instrument out of her hands without saying a word, and she couldn't really blame him.

He sat the violin aside and looked at her, his eyes (large and far too old) opened wide and pleading. "Vanya," he said, "Please."

His sincerity terrified her more than his cold aloofness ever had.

"Wh—" she swallowed convulsively, cutting off her voice and her airflow for a split second that that made her feel as though she was choking. When the moment passed she gasped to catch her breath, "What's going on?"

"I think—" Five looked set to stand, but he blinked off of the bed instead and began pacing. Which for him, meant disappearing and reappearing in various spots in the room, fidgeting with Vanya's belongings, until he settled into walking back and forth.

"I think," he started again, "That I made a mistake."

She let the confession stand for a second. He wasn't one that admitted to doing things incorrectly unless it was absolutely necessary. And even then, he did so grudgingly. Something was wrong, and it made her shoulders draw together, muscles seizing in fear.

"Okay," she prompted when he didn't continue after almost a full minute. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He barked a laugh. "No."

"Okay," she repeated.

"But I need to talk about it."

"Do you wanna sit back down?" His inability to stay still had always made her anxious. Today he moved like he had consumed a pot of coffee already (and likely as not, he had). He turned, stared hard at her for a moment, and then blinked back onto the bed.

"You know who I am, and what I've done," he began as a preface.

"You're my brother."

"I'm a killer," he corrected, as though those two things were mutually exclusive, "But I think—I think I killed someone I shouldn't have."

Vanya's mouth dropped open. "You killed the wrong person?"

"No," he snapped, crossing his arms. "I never killed the wrong person. I killed someone I shouldn't have. There's a difference, and a big one."

She took a moment to consider this before finally asking, "Who did you kill, and why were they the wrong—why shouldn't you have killed them?"

"It's all about rehabilitation of the timeline," he continued as though he hadn't heard her question. His fingers played with the buttons on his jacket, twisting them so hard that Grace would likely need to sew them back on later. Vanya could see how badly he wanted to blink away. To his credit, he stayed still and added, "I did what I had to do. It was necessary. Just like all the others. But—"

"Number Five."

"I think I killed Klaus's boyfriend," he blurted out.

Vanya's brow furrowed. This was not the confession she had expected. Especially since—

"Klaus doesn't have a boyfriend."

He sighed. "Technically, you're correct."

"...oh."

He nodded, allowing a moment for the confession to sink in. "He told you, didn't he?"

"About the war? He told me a little."

"And the man whose death could fix the timeline."

"Dave," she guessed. "Oh my god."

He nodded again, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Why? How?"

"I didn't ask questions," he admitted, "I learned not to. It was easier to know as little about our targets as I needed to make the kill. I guess it's clear why," he cringed a little before adding, "As for why it was necessary: it got Klaus sober. Maybe that was enough."

"Klaus," Vanya said, the sudden impact of Five's words hitting her. "What are you going to tell him?"

"What? Nothing!" He stared hard at her, something just short of a threat in his eyes. "Klaus isn't going to know. Ever."

"You have to tell him."

"Why? 58,220 men died in Vietnam, and that's just US soldiers. As far as Klaus is concerned, Dave is just one more. It needs to stay that way."

"If you really believed that, would you have told me?" She stared her brother down with a conviction that equaled his own before adding, "We can't change the past, Five. We can't change the things we've done. But I would give anything for a chance to apologize to some of the people I—" she hesitated.

"Killed," he finished.

"Killed," she repeated in a whisper, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Didn't apologizing get you locked away?"

The feeling of Luther's stranglehold on her, the memory of waking up in that awful sound-swallowing room made her gasp for breathe again. In an unusual moment of sympathy—no, of solidarity—Five reached out to touch her arm, pulling her back to the present.

"Yes," she said when she could breathe again. "But I would still do it. And Klaus deserves to know the truth."

Deserved to, a voice nagged in the back of her mind, but did he need to? She wasn't sure. Even so, she continued, "I could—go with you. If you think it would—"

"No. If—If Klaus finds out, I'm doing it alone, just like everything else."

She considered telling him that maybe doing things so stubbornly alone was part of the problem, but she didn't. Because before she could speak again, Number Five had blinked out of the room, and she was alone.

She picked up her violin and held it to her chest like a shield (although from what she wasn't sure).

Something was coming. That much was certain.