The living room of Stephen Bogaert's house was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a record spinning on the turntable and the occasional clink of ice against glass. The warm glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the patterned wallpaper, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. It was 1966, and nothing about this place felt like home.
Y/n sat curled in an armchair by the window, a book open in their lap, though their eyes kept flicking toward the couch. Five was there, as always, a glass of whiskey in his hand and Delores propped up beside him like she'd just joined him for a nightcap. He was talking to her again, his voice low and earnest, as if she were the only person in the room who mattered.
FH
Five Hargreeves
takes a slow sip, then glances at the mannequin You know, I've been thinking. When this is all over—when we've fixed the timeline and everything settles—you and I should find a place like this. Somewhere quiet. Maybe not Dallas. Somewhere with better weather.
leans back, smirking Don't give me that look. I know you'd miss the city. But imagine it—no apocalypse, no Commission, no lunatic siblings barging in at all hours. Just us. A decent bottle of Bordeaux and some peace and quiet.
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, and for a moment, his expression softened into something almost content. Then, as if remembering there was another person in the room, he glanced over at Y/n.
FH
Five Hargreeves
raises an eyebrow What are you reading? Or are you just pretending to so I don't rope you into conversation?
