Happy belated holidays!

1962

"…and you do have the necessary qualifications." The man interviewing her had a messy desk. There were too many file folders spread out over its surface, tips of papers poking from their edges. "Your clearances are in order as well…" It was actually quite distracting. She'd had a hard time focusing during the last ten minutes of questions. Now, before she had a chance to answer—when was the last time she'd talked?—he lowered the hand grasping her resume and leaned forward slightly. "Look, I appreciate you coming in, Mrs. C—"

"Miss is fine." She straightened her back and forced herself to focus on him as his eyes flicked back up from her resume, a long frown flattening over his face. She couldn't bring herself to regret the correction as he slowly went back to pretending to reread her work history.

"I appreciate you coming in," he repeated, only phased for a moment. "But you don't have much experience."

"No, I don't." But they wouldn't have called her all the way downtown for an interview just to tell her that. Hopefully.

He leaned back slightly. "Let me ask you this: Why this job? I'm sure you're aware that not many women applied for it. And we have secretarial positions open."

"I'm not a secretary." She'd dealt with enough spiraling interpersonal conflict for too long. She wouldn't subject herself to that again if she could help it. Not that he'd understand that. They never did. "And I'm good at analysis. I like the work; I wouldn't have spent my time learning something I didn't care about."

A face twitch that still didn't really give anything away. He changed tack. "The Soviets are making strides in their rocket program. God only knows what will happen if we let any more of them infiltrate our country. The FBI is facing an unprecedented threat to our national security. We need tough people who can handle tough situations."

"Sir, I'm a born and bred Texan. I don't know anything other than tough."

He snorted a single warm laugh at that, mouth finally lifting slightly, and for the first time, a small swell of terror echoed through her chest that she may actually get this job.

Still, she met his small smile with a determined stare of her own. "I applied for this position because I want it. You do need tough people, but more than that, you need people who care. That's why I'm here. If you need all the help you can get, I wouldn't recommend turning away someone as capable as me."

Then she waited. Waited for him to shoot back that she had obviously been a Mrs. at some point, that she probably had kids at home, that she had a household to run and did she really have time for a full-time job as well? And he would have been right on all three fronts.

A moment later, he didn't say any of those things. It took her a second to reach for his extended hand as he instead said, "Thank you for coming in. We'll be in touch, Mrs.—Miss Cooper."

000

1961

"How did your session go?" Ray was already smiling when Allison emerged from the choir room, one finger pointed toward her expectantly. His lecture must have ended early.

"Fine." Her raspy whisp of a voice was a big improvement from what it had been even a month ago when they'd started.

"You sound great." He said that every time. And when Allison looked at him sideways, which was her usual response, he burst into a short fit of laughter.

Sheila stepped out of the door behind Allison as his laugh trailed off, and she frowned at Ray. "Don't you have somewhere else to be than hanging around outside my classroom, Raymond?"

He straightened up immediately, still grinning, and made a show of shaking his head woefully. "Not until four, professor."

Allison had to suppress a bark of laughter at his unwitting reference.

"Hmph." Not at all fooled, Sheila's eyes drifted from him to Allison next to her. They didn't lose their shrewd glint. "I meant what I said about not pushing too hard this week. I don't like how strained those glottal sounds still are for you."

"Should she see Danny again?" Ray immediately sobered. After Sheila had agreed to help her, Allison had tried to refuse getting any real doctors involved in her throat. It hadn't worked.

Now, Sheila only shook her head. "We'll wait another week." Another quick glance at Allison. "Then we'll get Danny involved if we need to." She looked apologetic, at least.

Dr. Daniel Wells—surgeon, certified laryngologist, and a familiar face on the front lines of the movement's protests—had taken one look at Allison's neck with its still-raised but otherwise mostly healed laceration and immediately started raining down questions on her: What happened? Could she speak? Was she still in pain? For as deep as the scarring looked, how was she able to utter any sound at all?

Answering his questions honestly would have required admitting to the immediate treatment she'd received in the infirmary back in 2019. She didn't doubt that Mom had employed some kind of tissue implant and any other structural or medicinal fixes her coding suggested. Trying to explain a medical treatment sixty years in the future done by a robot she referred to as a parent was not an option. So Allison had feigned confusion and let Ray take over the appointment, asking if there was anything more that could be done.

Listening to Ray and Dr. Wells talk, she'd hunched over and tried to keep herself from sneaking glances at Sheila, afraid that even the slightest look would prompt the other woman to blurt out what little she'd gotten out of Allison during that first meeting.

It felt like an eternity of back and forth going on over her head on the other side of her squeezed-shut eyes. But despite Dr. Wells's ongoing bafflement and obvious hesitation as he examined her throat more and seconded their plan of vocal therapy, Sheila remained silent.

Even now, as Sheila finished inserting her folders into the bag she carried, Allison regretted having told her what Vanya had done. It still felt so private and so personal, and she hated what the other woman probably thought of her sister. Even if Sheila had so far kept her word and not asked for further details—or worse, said anything to Ray about Vanya—Allison hated how sometimes Sheila would look at her as if she was weighing whether or not she should ask for more information.

Allison only hoped Sheila would hold off until her voice was just a little stronger. Because as soon as that day came, Allison wouldn't return.

Before Ray could continue prodding about forcing Allison into a second doctor's appointment, a student came hurtling out of the crowd and skidded to a stop before the three of them.

"You're still on campus!" His shoulders slumped a little in relief as he pushed his glasses back up the bony bridge of his nose. "Professor Nolan, I am so sorry I missed class today. Is there any way I can make up my performance time next week?"

Allison hadn't yet met any of Sheila's students, but the guilt and slight look of fear in his eyes felt like vindication for her own innate fear of Sheila's ever-watchful, knowing demeanor. And she felt almost cheated a moment later as Sheila's appraising look smoothed into an exasperated but otherwise fond smile. "Stop by my office hours on Monday, James. You can make it up then."

Relief and fear battled it out as James nodded swiftly and thanked her before ducking back into the crowd.

Sheila just shook her head, exasperated. "If he wasn't going to be the next Enrico Caruso, I'd have failed him by now."

"It would also help if you'd stop putting freshmen in your upper-level performance classes." Ray's smile was aimed at Sheila and equally exasperated. Before she could argue, he added, "I don't care how well-developed their voices are! Stop throwing them into the deep end!"

"I have private lessons to get to." Her lack of direct response was not lost on Ray, and he grinned as she pointedly ignored him, said goodbye to Allison, and went on her way.

As soon as she was gone, Ray was motioning for Allison to follow, and they waded side by side into the packed hallway. He was checking his watch. "Odessa let you out of work early today."

Allison sighed to herself. Odessa was beyond thrilled with all of this, of course. And Allison knew that every time she said she wouldn't be around for dinner or would be coming in late to work, the other woman was making yet another tick on whatever tally she was keeping. Allison had long given up on trying to communicate that she didn't want this. Not with Ray, not with anyone…

"…am on my way to my last class," Ray was saying in the background as Allison came back to the hallway and their conversation. A few students glanced at the two of them as they passed, some of them just glancing quickly, others, probably his students, watching them curiously. Allison's eyes flicked to the ground. A month into this, and she was fairly certain her presence had generated a fair amount of chatter. LA was such a constant gossip mill she couldn't fathom that the same thing wasn't happening here too.

Ray turned to look at her just as she snuck a glance at him. His mouth was quirked to one side. "You're welcome to sit in on it if you'd like."

"I…" The syllable started out strong but almost immediately trailed off into nothingness. She'd need to keep working on that this week to try and not lose all her momentum at the starts of words and blow her still-healing chords out of the water.

"I won't even call on you, I promise," Ray added, mouth lifting a little more sharply into a lopsided smile.

Allison rolled her eyes, pretending to actually be debating it for a second even though she already knew her inevitable answer.

Don't you ever get tired of running? An angry voice in her head that sounded a lot like Diego, sneered.

Yes. Yes, she did. Which is why she did keep coming back here. She needed her voice back, and it would have been awkward to try and help with the movement while simultaneously avoiding Ray. But even she wasn't such a thorough liar as to not have realized she was also seeking out what she hadn't had in a long time: community. A group of people who knew her as her first. So far…the benefits were outweighing the potential cost.

"Fine." Her voice barely rose above the surrounding sounds of footsteps and passing conversations.

"I think you'll like what we're discussing today. It's been a fan favorite for a long time."

000

1961

Klaus placed the last of the luggage in the back of the car with a sinking feeling. Having a bed, a home, for the last year had done him more good than he'd realized at the time. When they'd arrived, he'd still been in survival mode and not ready to acknowledge the fact that he was so, so tired. Of moving around. Of living on the street. Of being forced out into the world.

Only this time, he'd done it to himself. And he and Ben both knew it.

"If you don't want to know the details, then don't come," Klaus had told his brother after the fifth time. They'd spent the night going over trip details in one of the less-used parlors a week after the Great Inheritance Ambush, and Ben wouldn't stop glaring at Klaus.

"You're making a mistake." Ben was still glaring at him from a floor cushion later that night.

Of course he was. That was his thing; didn't Ben know that already?

Now, Klaus slammed the trunk on the car, subsequently jumping at the sound.

Ben still didn't know about the will. Klaus knew he'd find out eventually, and it in truth, he was impatient for it. He wanted Ben to know, but there was no way in hell he'd be the one to tell him. It just felt…gross. And Klaus didn't put it past his brother to 1) gloat that he'd been right about Mrs. Randolph loving Klaus and 2) make a convincing argument to not go out evangelizing his frosted tips and beaded tube top religion. And Klaus would have agreed.

"I think we're ready, Klaus." Mrs. Randolph was in a quintessentially old lady dress and jacket—complete with matching pillbox hat and gloves. She was smiling at him from behind her Avon sunglasses.

Before he could run all the way back to New York, there was a breeze-light pressure on his shoulder, and it took him a moment to realize it was Ben. His brother was standing next to him, an arm around his back and hand resting on the opposite shoulder, silently.

"You sure you still want to come?" Klaus murmured, ducking his head to make it less obvious that he was seemingly talking to himself. Although, at this point, he didn't think Mrs. Randolph would bat an eye.

"Of course." There was a lot Ben could have said. He did kind of have to tag along, after all. But instead, he'd chosen that.

"I'm sorry. But…I have to do this. I just…I don't have a choice." Klaus whispered back and then walked away from the half-embrace over to the passenger's side door and got in before he could pull Ben aside and let it all come rushing out.

It was going to be hard to go out into the world with his brother tagging along and not say anything. But Klaus loved Dave, and he'd be damned if he messed up his chance to save him over Ben's feelings. They were leaving until Dave got a little older, and that was that. Which also, unfortunately, meant more secrets, more hiding, more putting up a front. And sure, Klaus was used to it, but not with Ben. Almost never with Ben. He rarely kept whole secrets to himself—leaving Dallas to avoid Dave notwithstanding—and he quite hated it. Even being able to tell Ben the half-truth of something, while lying his ass off and pretending like there wasn't more to some story or other, was way better than nothing.

Still, he wasn't going to ask Ben to leave him. He'd never—couldn't even imagine it. It was unthinkable…and the old, familiar guilt over that little lie came toppling down on him like bricks.

"All set?" Mrs. Randolph was already reaching for the stick in his peripheral.

You shouldn't have told him he could wait to go into the light. He's obviously stuck. You don't know how to help him get back there if he decides he wants to go. You lied. He died, and then you lied to him. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

"Yes, I'm—I'm ready." Klaus waited an awkward amount of time so that Ben could get comfortable in the backseat before nodding at Mrs. Randolph that he was ready to go.

She still wasn't fazed. And they drove down the driveway, away from home.

000

September 5, 1963

Diego couldn't remember the last time he'd asked his father for help. Standing on the familiar sidewalk outside of what would eventually become the Umbrella Academy, he wasn't sure if that was reassuring or meant this plan was doomed to fail.

A bittersweet feeling of home washed over him as if he hadn't just been here a handful of days ago. But it hadn't felt like this. Not the first time he'd raced to the house after hearing the news… to check if… And not the second time when he'd entered through the front doors the next morning as if he (and Pogo) didn't know he'd already come looking.

Pogo. Luther had described what Vanya had done. Diego wasn't too proud to admit his first reaction had been to sorely miss his punching bag with the back cover of her book taped to it. His second had been to retreat into his eternal anger with Dad on her behalf.

Amid the familiar sensation of climbing the steps now, followed by reaching for the thin doors with the stained-glass umbrellas, all he could think was how relieved he was that it had been Pogo and not Mom. That if he walked in now and a young ape in trousers and button-down shirt greeted him, he wouldn't break down sobbing.

None of them—and especially not Vanya—could afford that right now.

Her terrified eyes staring at him from the other side of the door in the basement gave him the push that he needed, and Diego was surprised when, after knocking a few times with no answer, the doorknob easily turned in his palm.

He was even more blown back when he stepped into the silent, solemn parlor to find it busy and welcoming and alive. Groups of people with drinks in their hands mingling and music floating through the atmosphere like gentle fog.

It felt like a dream as Diego stumbled in a few steps, not even hearing the door close behind him amid the gurgle of noise. And for the first minute, he just wandered, taking it all in—this familiar place that he'd never seen like this. A mix of people dressed in bright colors, the smell of perfume and strong drinks, the vibe of it all… It was all he could do to move between groups of people without running into anyone.

Eyes landed on him and then jumped away, his all-black outfit standing out amongst the partygoers' lavish, varied clothing, though not enough to arouse any real amount of suspicion. He'd gotten good at hiding an absurd number of knives on his person by now, so he knew they wouldn't suspect he was armed. If anything, they didn't seem to question whether or not he belonged there amongst them, and it felt like drowning.

Around them, the house looked the exact same as it had in 2019; it really did. But even though the back of his mind was screaming home, home, home as he spun once more in the foyer to look up at the chandelier and railings along the gallery floors above, all Diego could think was, What the hell has Dad done with this place?

Ughhhhhhh. What is it with Netflix and Communism? First Stranger Things and now Umbrella Academy. Like, I get that it's the '60s. But really, ya'll?

Also, Allison said she couldn't speak for a year when she finally found Klaus, but if she got there in 1961 and was presumably talking by Christmas of that year (her and Ray's first date), then dated him for however long, and then was celebrating their one-year anniversary in 1963, the timeline doesn't quite add up. Either way, I'm accelerating that since I think that Grace must have done some form of laryngoplasty (throat surgery) in 2019 that would have started Allison down the path to healing. Otherwise, I'm not sure that she could have recovered as well as she did in the show with 1960s medicine alone. And, now that she has someone who knows how to work with damaged vocal cords and can essentially provide a form of vocal therapy, she should heal a lot faster than a year. Also, because plot.

Also, also, if you are like me and know absolutely nothing about the history of famous singers, Enrico Caruso was apparently a very well-known Italian opera singer in the early twentieth century, and Sheila would totally be up on all the go-to faves in every genre of music. (He does have a very nice voice if you're so inclined to check him out.)

Spongebob reference!

Thank you to Jess and Katie for beta-ing! And thank you for reading!