6. Five
I dragged myself up the steps of our farmhouse, muscles screaming from Valentine's brutal training session. The familiar creak of the third step barely registered through the fog of exhaustion and lingering shame. Everything hurt—inside and out—a physical manifestation of how spectacularly I'd fucked up last night. Valentine had pushed me to my limits today, like he could somehow train the chaos out of me. Like enough push-ups and obstacle courses could fix whatever was broken in my head.
The house was too quiet when I stumbled inside. It was that peculiar stillness that meant Papa was probably next door at the funeral home, helping Uncle Nikita with another "disposal need." Mom was likely over at Warrick and Pax's place with the girls, or maybe watching little David while his mom was at work. Aunt Tatty would be wherever mob princesses went during the day. The thought of Papa humming old Russian lullabies while he fired up the crematorium for another off-the-books job should have bothered me more than it did. But when your family tree included vigilante serial killers, the Russian mob, and enough complicated relationships to make a soap opera writer quit in frustration, your moral compass got a little skewed.
I paused at the family photos lining the hallway, my reflection ghosting over faces frozen in happier times. Yuri beaming at Mom's nursing school graduation. Aunt Tatiana dancing with Warrick at his graduation party in the backyard. Shepherd's different alters each getting their own frame, because family meant accepting every part of someone. The newest addition showed little David, Shepherd’s nephew, on his first birthday, chocolate cake everywhere, while his mom laughed in the background.
Sometimes I wondered if normal families took this many pictures, documented every minor milestone like it was precious. But then, normal families didn't have to worry about losing members to mob wars or vigilante missions gone wrong. Every photo was a promise. We were here, we existed, we loved each other despite or maybe because of our damage.
I kicked off my boots, wincing at how the movement pulled at overworked muscles. The training bag hit the floor with a thud that echoed through the empty foyer. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and forget how Valentine's eyes had burned into me during training, that mix of disappointment and something darker that made my skin feel too tight.
"Xander."
Xavier's voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. I didn't need to look at him to know he was already reading me, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell. That's what he did. He used that freaky empathy of his to see straight through everyone's defenses. He stood in the archway to the living room, arms crossed over his chest, positioned perfectly to block any escape route. Even without looking directly at him, I could feel the calculated concern radiating off him in waves.
He had that slightly manic look he got after coding for too long, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd been up all night gaming with Leo again. That's how Xavier dealt with worry. He either lost himself in lines of code or set controlled fires in the backyard, like he could burn away the fear of losing someone else. His laptop screen still glowed from where he'd left it on the coffee table, notifications pinging softly. Probably Leo checking in after their marathon gaming session. Sometimes I thought we were all just different flavors of the same trauma response, finding unique ways to cope with growing up surrounded by violence and vigilante justice.
The air between us crackled with unspoken words, laced with the faint scent of lighter fluid that always seemed to cling to Xavier's clothes these days. He had always been the bridge between me and Xion after the incident, the one who understood both sides without taking either. Now he was trying to be the bridge between me and myself, and I wasn't making it easy.
"What?" I snapped, the word coming out sharper than intended. My emotions were already raw from Valentine's training, scraped open and bleeding. I couldn't handle Xavier's particular brand of emotional manipulation right now.
"We need to talk about last night." His voice was carefully controlled, but I caught the underlying tension. The same tone he used when talking Xion down from a paranoid episode. Great. Now I was getting the "unstable sibling" treatment.
I tried to brush past him toward the stairs, but he caught my arm. The touch sent electricity racing across my skin—too much sensation when everything already felt amplified. He'd already positioned himself perfectly between me and escape, using that uncanny ability to read people to predict exactly how I'd react.
"Let go," I growled, but didn't pull away. Some part of me needed the anchor he was offering, even as another part screamed that this was emotional manipulation at its finest.
"No." Xavier's grip tightened slightly, his eyes scanning my face with that intense focus that meant he was reading every subtle shift in my expression. Even the crack in his voice felt calculated, though I knew the concern behind it was real. "Not this time. You almost got—" He paused, letting the silence do the work for him. "That guy could have—"
"Don't." The word came out like broken glass. "I had it under control."
"Bullshit." Xavier's other hand came up to grip my shoulder, forcing me to face him. "You were dissociating so hard you couldn't even say no. If I hadn't been there—"
"Then I would have handled it!" The words exploded out of me, too loud in the quiet house. "I'm not some fucking damsel in distress who needs big brother swooping in to save me!"
"No, you're my sibling who's spiraling so hard they can't tell the difference between danger and distraction anymore!" Xavier's eyes blazed with a fury that reminded me of Papa during a job. "You think I don't see what's happening? The drugs, the hookups, throwing yourself at Valentine like some kind of—"
"Don't." My voice cracked. "Don't you dare make this about him."
"Remember your night terrors?" Xavier's voice went soft and dangerous, that tone he used when he was about to dissect someone's psyche. He pulled me down onto the couch beside him, knowing exactly how my touch-starved brain would respond to the contact. "You'd wake up screaming every night. I could feel your terror bleeding into the air, taste your fear like candy." His arms came around me, the hold both comforting and calculated. "The only thing that helped was this."
I curled into him automatically, my head tucking under his chin like we were kids again. He knew exactly what he was doing, using my need for physical affection to lower my defenses. But even knowing I was being manipulated, I couldn't pull away. Touch had always been my weakness, and Xavier wielded it like a scalpel.
"This isn't the same thing," I protested, but I pressed closer anyway. His heartbeat was steady under my ear, just like all those nights when my screams had woken the whole house and he'd used his gift to pull me back from the edge of panic.
"Isn't it?" His fingers carded through my hair with deliberate gentleness, even as his words cut deep. "I can taste your fear now, just like back then. You're still that terrified kid, Dee. You're just running toward danger instead of away from it." His voice dropped lower, heavy with dark knowledge. "But the really interesting part? The fear tastes exactly the same. You're not afraid of pain or death. You're afraid of being alone."
He was right. It was about Valentine, wasn't it? About the way he looked at me like I was simultaneously the most fascinating and frustrating thing he'd ever seen. About how desperately I wanted to prove I was worth training, worth keeping, worth loving. About how terrified I was that he'd see through all my carefully constructed walls to the mess underneath.
"Then what is it about?" Xavier's voice softened with practiced precision, his grip steady as he watched my reaction. He had that look in his eyes, the one that meant he was seeing straight through my bullshit to the truth I was trying to hide from myself. "Because from where I'm standing, you're doing the same thing you always do when someone matters too much. You're trying to destroy yourself before they get the chance to destroy you."
The words hit with surgical accuracy, and I hated how he could cut straight to the heart of my issues with a few perfectly chosen words. It was harder to deny when he laid it out like that, using his gift to reflect my own fears back at me. My chest tightened, breath coming in short gasps as the familiar spiral started. Too much, too fast, too real. The edges of my vision started to blur.
"Hey, hey, stay with me." Xavier's hands moved to cup my face, the touch grounding even as I recognized it as another calculated move. He knew exactly how to modulate his voice, exactly where to touch to pull me back from the edge. "Breathe with me, Dee. Just like when we were kids, remember?" The childhood nickname wasn't an accident either. He was deliberately triggering memories of safety, of times before everything got so complicated.
I tried to match his exaggerated breathing, fighting against the tide of panic threatening to pull me under. Xavier's steady presence anchored me, just like it had countless times before. When had I started needing this again? When had I become so fucking fragile?
"I can't—" The words caught in my throat. "I don't know how to—"
"I know." Xavier pulled me into a hug, and I collapsed against him like a puppet with cut strings. "I know you're scared. But pushing everyone away isn't the answer. Not me, not Valentine, not your family."
I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his stupid cologne and Papa's fabric softener. "What if he sees how broken I am?" The whispered words felt like a confession. "What if he realizes I'm just like—"
"You're not like Dad," Xavier cut me off fiercely. "You're not like Algerone, and you're not broken. You're hurting and scared, and maybe a little lost. But that doesn't make you broken."
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Tell that to my brain. Pretty sure normal people don't feel like they're constantly one rejection away from shattering into a million pieces."
Xavier's arms tightened around me. "Since when has anyone in this family been normal? Shepherd has multiple personalities, Warrick can’t count to five without a breakdown. River thinks turning people into mushroom fertilizer is a romantic gesture, and Xion sees things that aren't there sometimes. We are all fucked up, and we all work with what we've got."
Something in his tone made me pull back slightly, studying his face. Xavier had always been the most stable of us triplets. At least, he seemed that way. But lately I'd started wondering if maybe he was just better at hiding whatever darkness lived inside him. The way he could read people, manipulate situations... it wasn't normal. Even for our family.
"What about you?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Xavier went still, that perfect stillness that meant I'd caught him off guard. "What about me?"
"Don't play dumb. You've got everyone's number. You always know exactly what to say, exactly how to push..." I gestured vaguely between us. "Even this. You knew exactly how to get me to break down and talk."
A shadow crossed his face, there and gone so fast I almost missed it. "You think I'm manipulating you?"
"I think you're doing what you always do. You’re using that freaky emotional radar of yours to figure out exactly how to get what you want." I didn't pull away, though. Maybe that was the fucked up part. I knew he was probably manipulating me, and I still needed this. "The question is, what do you want?"
Xavier was quiet for a long moment, his arms still locked around me. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before. "I want my sibling to stop trying to destroy themself. I want you to get help before you do something you can't take back. And yeah, maybe I am using what I know about you to make that happen. But that doesn't make it less true."
The honesty in his voice hit harder than any manipulation could have. Because that was the thing about Xavier—he might be playing emotional chess while the rest of us were playing checkers, but he never used it to hurt us. Not family.
"Maybe it's time to talk to someone professional about all this,” Xavier said. “Mom probably still knows some good therapists from her nursing days who won't freak out about our... unique family situation."
"You know what the worst part is?" I slumped against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "I can't tell what's real anymore. When Valentine looks at me like I'm worth something, is that real, or am I just projecting because I desperately want it to be? When I feel this connection with him, is it genuine or is it just my BPD latching onto another person who could destroy me?"
Xavier's expression softened with understanding. "Maybe both things can be true. Maybe you can have real feelings and still need help managing how intensely you experience them. There's no shame in that."
"Easy for you to say. You've got your empathy thing completely under control."
His laugh was bitter. "You think this is control? Dee, I feel everything. Every micro-expression, every subtle shift in mood, every unspoken truth. It's like drowning in other people's emotions sometimes. The only difference is I've learned to use it instead of letting it use me. Why do you think I spend so much time gaming?”
“And lighting shit on fire,” I pointed out.
He shrugged and fished out his favorite lighter, not even contesting the point. “They're both predictable, you know? Input equals output. Not like people, where everything's messy and complicated." Xavier struck a small flame and stared into it, eyes losing focus. "At least when something burns, you know exactly why and how. It follows rules."
The automatic denial rose to my lips, but I swallowed it back. "You really think I need a shrink? What am I supposed to tell them? 'Hi, I have attachment issues because my bio dad's a psychopath, but don't worry, my adoptive parents are a gay Russian mob boss and his wife who's married to my other mom who's married to my papa who runs a funeral home, and oh yeah, I have a bunch of nieces and a nephew who technically aren't related to me at all but we'd kill for them anyway'? Should I mention that my brother can read emotions like a fucking supernatural power and uses it to manipulate everyone around him?"
Xavier's lips quirked. "You could leave that last part out. My emotional intelligence is between me and my future therapist, if I ever find one equipped to handle it."
His expression softened as he studied me. "But seriously, Dee. Think about it? For me?"
I nodded, too drained to argue anymore. It was hard to fight against Xavier when he got like this. "Yeah, okay. I'll think about it."
"That's all I'm asking." He squeezed my shoulder, his eyes doing that thing where they seemed to catalogue every micro-expression for future reference. It should have felt invasive, but instead it was oddly comforting. At least someone in this family could read me well enough to see past my bullshit. "Now go get some sleep. You smell like Valentine's torture chamber."
A weak laugh escaped me. "Fuck you. I smell like victory and determination."
"You smell like sweat and poor life choices." But there was that familiar calculating warmth in his voice, the kind that meant he was already figuring out twelve different ways to help me whether I wanted it or not. "Love you, baby bro."
"Love you too, you manipulative bastard." The words came easier than they usually did. "And I'm only younger by four minutes, asshole."
I watched him disappear upstairs, something tight in my chest finally starting to loosen. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to stop running from the chaos in my head and start figuring out how to live with it instead. And if Xavier wanted to use his weird emotional superpowers to help me get there... well, there were worse things than having a dark empath for a brother.
Maybe it was time to let Valentine see all of me—the beautiful and the broken parts—and trust that he was strong enough to handle both.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Right now, I just needed to shower, sleep, and try not to think about how Valentine's voice saying "again" had made parts of me ache that had nothing to do with physical training.
One day at a time, right?
Right.