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The Hargreeves mansion feels both like long lost home and a sinking ship, wrapped up in expensive antiques, dust, and the smell of furniture polish. There's a fire burning in the hearth of the great room, the sounds of Grace's humming from the library, the scuff of boots or music from a bedroom far overhead. The house seems to be stuttering back to life, breathing on rickety lungs where Reginald had left them to rot.

The old man gone, the house is nothing more than a monument to manipulation, a bastion of warning to all things that away them by the end of the week. The end of the world. 2019.

The house might as well be dead and empty when he blinks home, blood splattered on the starched, white collar of his shirt, sticky in his hair, an annoying spot of dried spit on his tie. The last thirty-six hours have been nothing at all what Number Five intended, but then again, he hadn't intended to return to this timeline in the body of the thirteen-year-old willful try hard that his siblings knew all those years ago. Things are different now and the weight on his shoulders bears heavily upon him; the world is ending. The world is ending in five days.

The coffee at Griddy's had burned hours before he'd been served it and he can taste the bitter char on the back of his tongue even still as he paces through the foyer, a tin of coffee grounds tucked under his arm. Hindsight tells him he should have grabbed a donut on the way out, too, but the coffee's a start. (The donut would taste like a different year with a different bite, would speak to late nights huddled in a booth with kids his age, snort-laughing while Number Four tried to blow custard out of his nose).

He's grateful that the house seems quiet as he plods down the stairs and into the kitchen, cracking open the coffee tin on the way in. He blinks across the room, gathering a mug, then filling the coffee maker with water, and then—

"Shit."

No filters. No filters for a fucking coffee machine? He rifles through cabinets, drawers, and even digs behind loose tiles they used to hide things in as children. He comes up empty handed, save for an old set of playing cards with cartoon pinups on the faces, splotched in black mold. Tossing them aside, the pack slapping on the flooring, he plants his hands on the counter, closes his eyes, and breathes.

"Five days left in this shithole and I can't even get a decent cup of coffee."

Despite the fact that Allison has been gone from the Academy for over twelve years, it still feels as if she can't breathe quite right inside the house. It's as if the walls are ready to topple on her, trapping her within them, and this time they won't let her go.

It's amazing, she thinks, how things can be so different now, but so much still feels the same. How no matter how old she is, how successful she has been, she suddenly still feels like a child, waiting for Reginald to reprimand her. It still feels as if Grace is about to show up at any moment to remind her of her tasks to complete for the day (a trick that Reginald had gotten into the habit of doing as she got older, because it's not like she could Rumor a robot). She still feels like she's being watched at every turn, like she can't quite be, and that's what had made her go out on her own as well. As if somehow, by trying to catch her breath, it would change anything. As if that would make this hellhole bearable.

It doesn't work, though. Because the hellhole isn't really the house, at least not really. Allison's entire life has been a never ending shitstorm that she can't seem to escape, and no matter what she does, or how she tries to outrun it, she feels trapped in it. It feels like her lungs are too small for her body; like her heart isn't beating quite right. It's just all somehow more pronounced here, in the house that she has hated all her life, across the country from a little girl that she misses with all her heart, and she finds herself wondering if she made a mistake in coming at all.

Once she makes a pitstop at a convenience store to grab a new pack of cigarettes and a large cup of coffee (because it's not like she's planning on really sleeping any time soon, and only buying the cigarettes make her feel too much like the smoker she tells herself she's not), she makes her way back to the house. And, even without their father in the house anymore, she makes her way in through the backdoor, as if sneaking in how she used to once upon a time. That's when she hears Five grumbling in the kitchen, and once she closes the door the clacking of her heels against the tile floor announce her presence before she actually walks into the kitchen itself. By then, her cigarettes are buried in the pocket of her coat, but the cup of coffee is in her hand as if that's what she had gone out to buy to begin with.

"Hey," she greets, and while her eyes venture over to the playing cards on the floor, she doesn't necessarily mention them. She just turns back to Five, suddenly realizing his collar has blood on it, and she frowns in concern as she walks closer to him. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

The open wound on his arm is cleaned and healing, at the very least, thanks to Vanya, but it doesn't account for the blood on his shirt, in his hair. The men in the donut shop had been sloppy, charging in with guns blazing, and Five can't help but wonder if they sent the idiots first just to give him a warning. A heads up that they were coming.

The Commission does nothing in half measures. And while he knows he can handle this thing on his own, it would have been helpful if Vanya had believed him, if he could trust any of his siblings with what he saw, what he knows. But maybe in the knowing, that's how they all die.

He hears the heels and straightens, pocketing his hands and turning, his shoulders a little more rounded, his head tilted to one side. Number Three, perhaps. Possibly Four, but the footsteps sound too sure, not sloppy. He turns his back to the counter, the tin opened, the coffee pot left full of water, and leans his back against the counter.

"It's nothing," he says almost as quickly as she voices his concern, sounding bored, even tired. "It looks like we had the same idea." He gives a nod to the cup in her hand, though he doesn't acknowledge the failed attempt behind him. "Must run in the family."

Years and years and years span between them, and even though they have all scattered, have all taken to running like chicken with their heads cut off in the wake of the old man's death, it's good to see them. It's good to hear their names spoken by human voices, existing beyond his memory and the dirtied, worn pages of Vanya's book he's carried with him all this time.

He pushes away from the counter and blinks to the other side of the table, the jump seamless and effortless, a hand reaching up to a basket atop the toaster oven. Napkins? He plucks one up, turning it over and back. "I'm surprised you stuck around."

Despite all the years they have spent apart, it doesn't surprise her when Five all but discards her concern. It's ingrained in them to do this, to shrug off blood and injuries, because they hardly mattered in this household. There's an infirmary upstairs for that very reason - taking injured children to a hospital would require care, instructions on bed rest, suggestions for being mindful of whatever ailment plagued them. Reginald, though, always had a different idea. He wanted them to be strong; to shrug off injuries, to disregard the way they felt. They always had to keep going, no matter what, and apparently Five still remembers that lesson, all these years later (even if he still looks just how he looked the last time she saw him).

A muscle in her jaw twitches at his response, a silent 'I don't believe you,' but one that she doesn't voice. Not yet, anyway, since it doesn't look like he's tracking blood throughout the house, so for now that has to suffice.

Looking down at the mug, she nods. "Yeah. You were right, there's no coffee in this house, so..." Never mind the cigarettes tucked in her coat. Not that she thinks he'll care, exactly, but her dirty little habit is not exactly something she likes to boast about, either. As he cleans himself up with a napkin, she glances towards the coffee maker but notices that nothing is brewing. She walks over to it, as if to check if it's missing something, but when she notices the lack of filter or coffee in it, she removes the lid of her coffee and pours half of it into the mug that Five had left behind. She hadn't touched it yet, after all, and while it may not be the quantity either of them wanted, at least it's something.

"It's not doctored up," she assures him as she offers him the mug of, before pulling up a chair so that she can sit. Going up to her room feels as unappealing as being anywhere else in the house, so for now she'll just stay here before she ventures to her usual hiding spot to smoke.

"And, yeah," she agrees with a sigh. "Me, too. But I couldn't get a flight out of here sooner than tomorrow night, so I'll be sticking around for another day." She can't help but worry about what that will mean, considering it's causing her to miss a therapy session, but it had been due to her father's funeral. Patrick would understand this was out of her control, won't he?

She takes a sip of the coffee, focusing on the way it burns as it goes down her throat as if that will somehow distract her from those thoughts.

"How are you?" Before he can respond with his usual I'm fine, she gives him a look. "Humor me a little. You just time traveled, and now you're here with blood on your shirt. I won't ask about the blood, but in general. How are you holding up, with all this?"

The thing about his line of work is he can see the imperceptible even if he doesn't draw his attention to it. The way the muscle in her jaw moves: irritation; the way she quiets when she drinks from the coffee: savoring; the look when she questions his wellbeing: sisterly. He can't help the analytical side of his brain, can't help but wait for the next blindside, because he knows it's there, lurking around the corner in the dark.

But he's read. Oh, is he ready.

"Thanks," he says as he takes up the mug, tossing the dirtied napkin aside. Hindsight, the napkin would have done for a fine filter, but he won't turn down her offering, and he hums, genuinely grateful after he savors the first sip. "Glad to see someone else has good taste."

He rounds the kitchen, considering taking a seat opposite her, joining her at a table he hasn't belonged at in nigh fifty years. Vanya hadn't believed him, not really, thought the time travel just addled his brain. But what did he expect? From the looks of things, everyone in this family had moved on in some way or another, no longer tied to the strange world their father tried to build. Unlucky for him, he's been dealing in time since the moment he Handler sunk her teeth into him.

It's the pool table he stops at, mug handle clutched in one hand, other swiping at a stray, striped nine ball, delicately placing it back in the frame with the others. He doesn't quite expect her question and he drinks deeply from his mug, letting silence settle between them as he chews on his answer.

"I'd be better if I wasn't trapped in the body of a thirteen-year-old, but I've seen worse." He turns with a non-committal tilt of his head, leaning back against the pool table and watching her from across the kitchen. "What about you? Looks like I missed the heartwarming family reunion by a few hours."

A smile crosses her lips at the compliment, not surprised that he approves of the coffee. "Couldn't let you be the only one," she quips playfully, almost smugly even if it's all really just a tease.

As he walks around the kitchen, Allison just drinks her coffee. Partly curious if he'll actually answer her question, but also trying to follow his cues. It has been a long time since they have last seen each other, after all, and while they had been able to 'catch up' earlier, it hardly felt like it. Everyone had been in the room, shocked questions being spewed from everyone at every turn. It hardly felt like a reunion. And, while neither him nor Five are the sentimental type, the love she feels for him is still very much there. He's still her brother; she's still his sister. No matter how much time has passed, that has not changed.

At his response, she nods slightly as if saying 'fair enough.' She can't imagine how that must feel like, and there's hardly anything she can do to help about that other than maybe offering to take him shopping for some new clothes.

Before she can suggest it, though, he's suddenly turning the tables on her, and she lets out a chuckle under her breath even if it lacks any humor. "Yeah...consider yourself lucky. It went as well as you can imagine." Five had missed the bitterness that followed after his disappearance, the way they all fell apart after Ben died. He had been there as they all established the cracked foundation of their lives together, so she's sure he has an idea of how fucked up it all turned out to be, but still. He hadn't gotten a chance to live it, and she half wonders how much he knows from his time in the future.

"A lot of things happened after you left," she continues after a moment. "Left a lot of things unsaid. Caused a lot of things to also be said, that created a lot of problems. Everything went to shit, basically, so being back here isn't exactly my favorite thing. But hey, apparently no matter how old we are, Sir Reginald Hargreeves still has quite the reach to grab us all and come back, even in death. So...here I am."

It feels like a lifetime ago that they all gathered in the kitchens on their off time, that they all laughed and joked and fought in their fleetingly spare moments. Allison's warmth is surprising, what with the playful quip, the smug tease. It takes him be surprise and he huffs softly, not quite a laugh and not quite a smile on his lips, but recognition all the same.

"If it had gone any better then it wouldn't be the Umbrella Academy, would it? Dysfunction is just a prerequisite at this point."

But he turns his eye on her when she begins to explain what happened when he left, and he can't fathom. He'd read Vanya's book, so he has an image of life after his departure cast through her eyes, but he knows it doesn't paint a clear, unbiased picture. Nothing ever will, after all. But Ben, everyone leaving, the way Reginald behaved, they way Vanya was treated... well.

He has to deal carefully here. Vanya's already likely looking up shrinks in the phonebook, and if he decides to show his hand to Allison, she could very well end up doing the same. He thought he'd be able to level with Vanya, considering their relationship as children, considering she doesn't have powers with which to act, but he begins to weigh the option of Number Three, now, as if he could somehow peek into the future and see how she'd respond.

"You must be eager to get home to Claire," he says, all matter-of-fact, as though he's talked to her about it dozens of times before. "And forgive me if that's presumptuous. Tact is something that goes away with old age." A single shoulder shrug, a tilt of the head. "Or so I've been told." A sip from the mug.

Well, he's right about that. If there's one thing they're all apparently very familiar with is how dysfunctional they all are, and when they get together...

Let's just say she's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because Diego and Luther fighting was not really that surprising and, honestly, it falls very low in the list of shitty things that can happen when they're together.

Just as she's about to take a sip of her coffee, Five mentions Claire and Allison stops. While it doesn't surprise her to hear her daughter's name from their other siblings, considering how famous she is and how the divorce had gone so public that she doubts anyone on this earth doesn't know at least something about her, she had not expected it from Five. He has been gone, after all. And yes, she remembers his comment about knowing things since he had been in the future, but...somehow it didn't click that he might know about Claire.

"Yeah, I am," she finally answers, her voice a tad softer. It's the effect her daughter has on her; it disarms her in a way that nothing else can. That, plus the regret and guilt she has been drowning in for the last ten months...

She frowns slightly, but there's a slight smile on her face. "I didn't realize you knew about her."

"I know everything," Five bites, jaw clenched, a touch on the defensive. Oh, if only they knew what he saw when he traveled as a kid, when he went rushing through time, not knowing that the road led to a dead-end. He still finds himself remembering the way they looked in the rubble, their faces the same as they are now, but charred and dusted and cold, burned into the back of his mind.

He drinks deeply from his mug, thankful that the coffee isn't burnt, that it goes down bitter and hot. He needs to sleep, he knows that much, but there isn't time for that here.

"Plenty of resources at my disposal in the future, among other things," he looks down at his cup, nearly empty. His mouth twists into a tight line and he blinks, body evaporating from his place at the pool table, into a chair at the table across from her. "When I went forward in time, the library was one of the only things left standing."

Even then, standing is a relative term. It had some walls remaining, had some shelter from the elements, a small collection of books and newspapers protected by a layer of grime and dirt. "I read Vanya's book, though from what I understand it wasn't exactly a crowd pleaser." Not that it exactly gave many details about their adult lives, but it painted a picture for him, of how things were when he left.

Maybe, just maybe, he can try confiding in Allison. The risks are just as high as it might have been with Vanya, but the Rumor leaves something to be wary of, even if they are siblings. It's been a long time, they've all changed. Best to refrain from making assumptions. But as she said, she'd be leaving on the next plane which is, frankly, for the best. One less body in the way as he tries to hurtle his way toward the apocalypse and whatever causes it.

"Can't say I'd blame you, either."

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