Chapter Text
The plot of earth isn’t difficult to find. With some guidance from the groundskeeper and a loosely detailed map, Five locates the spot in less than ten minutes. There is nothing overwhelming or breathtaking about the gravestone’s size or appearance; it’s a simple rectangle with a rounded out top dremeled from granite. Unlike many slabs around it, it isn’t laden with flowers or flags or any other tokens of love for the person beneath it. The grass around it is plush, barren, and there isn’t a sign of anything having been settled about it for some time.
Five comes to a stop before the front of the stone. He scans the front of it, lips pressed into a thin line.
Elliott Samual Gussman
March 1st, 1918 - November 21st, 1963
Gone but never forgotten.
“Evidence to the contrary,” he mutters quietly with a shake of his head. He bends forward and lays the bouquet of vibrant zinnias before the stone and then steps back, tucking his hands into his pockets. A slight breeze picks up and it provides a pleasant amount of reprieve from the stagnant heat of the late spring Dallas day. Trees rustle overhead with the wind and grackles croak in the distance.
Diego had filled in the gaps for Five as to what transpired shortly after Elliott’s death. Evidently Diego picked a pretty shitty location to attempt to bury him, Lila did a pretty shitty job informing the body disposal division at the Commission of his remains, and it was only a week or so after his disappearance that the Dallas police department located him discarded in a wheelbarrow near a water tower just outside of the city. Confirmation of his identification quickly dispelled the rumors from his colleagues of alien abduction and Elliott was soon buried by his ex-wife and a few lingering conspiracy theorist friends.
That was nearly 57 years ago. From the looks of it, no one has paid much mind to the grave or body beneath it since. Five swallows the lump in his throat and addresses the headstone.
“Hey, Elliott.”
A familiar dull ache swells in his chest. He ignores it.
“It’s been a while - well, for you anyway. I visited the shop earlier today,” he says conversationally, tilting his gaze up to watch the leaves flit above him. “It’s been converted to a cafe, though I’m sorry to say they can’t brew a decent cup worth shit. Your blend would have put them to shame.”
Five read both the obituary and autopsy report even though he didn’t need to. His memory can still paint the very vivid image of Elliott’s body from when he discovered him. He recognized the torture tactics that lead up to his death, so unoriginal and yet so clearly and classically Commission form. Dental work is the usual go to for extracting information from a target as it leads to caving bravado rather quickly. He hates to think how long it may have gone on for before the Swedes finally disposed of him permanently.
With how loyal Elliott was, he can only assume it was quite some time.
Shame and regret coil tighter in his stomach. It’s a feeling that hasn’t left Five alone for a single day, not since he discovered Elliott’s disfigured corpse laid out in the dental chair. His death had been premature, drawn out, and entirely avoidable. All Five had to do was be there and he could have stopped them, could have unleashed on the Swedes whatever they had planned for Elliott ten fold. Instead he was off completing a gruesome task of his own that inevitably amounted to nothing .
“Well, you’d be thrilled to find out aliens are real,” he continues, his voice pinched with forced pleasantries. He attempts something akin to a grin, but it’s too tight, too strained. “Turns out the old man was one himself - not a huge surprise there though. I bet you’d have loved to tell some people ‘I told you’ so, huh? I would have told the old ex for you, but she died in ‘03. Cancer.”
It occurs to Five that he’s stalling. Stalling before a chunk of rock, no less. Even if it is easier talking to an inanimate object over a real person (he has years of experience to thank for that), it still doesn’t make coming to terms with his own failures any less difficult. His eyes drop to the headstone once more, reading the inscribed letters over and over. Gone but never forgotten. It’s a poor choice of words for a man who’s absence was noticed by so few people, Five reflects sourly.
He lets out a tired sigh, the burden of loss and pain inadvertently caused by him and his family weighing heavily on him. Elliott was a good man. Peculiar, fanatical, and definitely a bit intrusive with his interrogations of Five and his presumed alien ways, but he was consistently helpful and kind. He was critical in Five’s attempts to locate his siblings and once he did, Elliott was nothing other than hospitable to them. He took them in without question, fed them, housed them, and even assisted in their mission to find out more about their father. And in the end his services were rewarded with torture and death.
Five swallows the guilt building in his throat. “You were a good friend, Elliott,” he finally manages to get out, his voice thick with sincerity. “You helped me find my family again and get us back home to 2019 where we belong. I’ll never be able to repay that debt to you.”
He tried to, anyway. Tried to figure out a way to go back and fix things in a way that would have left the timeline still intact and Elliott alive. But time travel is tricky, maintaining linear continuity while dabbling with real lives is damn near impossible, and Five couldn’t risk disappearing and getting stuck again for the sake of Elliott. It was a selfish decision and yet one he would make a thousand times over. He can’t ever jeopardize finally being back with his family. Not after all the suffering he has gone through to reach this point.
That still doesn’t stop him from feeling culpable.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I’m sorry you got wrapped up in my own shit and all that did was lead two assassins to your door.” He exhales with exasperation and a hand reaches up to scrub at the back of his neck, unpleasant memories flickering in his mind. Dolores. The tow truck driver. His family when he first arrived back in 2019. He grimaces. “As it turns out, I’m really good at doing that.”
There’s a beat of silence as the wind dies down and the trees go still. It annoys Five, like the entire earth is waiting with bated breath to see what else he has to say. He stands there reading the few words etched into the granite over and over again. Gone but never forgotten . He breathes through his nose and his fingers fidget until enough time passes that he finds control within himself to stop. It’s only when the breeze resumes again that he feels the tenseness lessen in his shoulders and he’s able to bring himself to unclench his jaw.
Even with the constant stress of existing in the 1960’s and trying to figure out how to stop yet another apocalypse, Five had found moments of pleasure in the few evenings and mornings shared in Elliott’s shop. He can’t recall the last time he genuinely enjoyed the presence of someone else outside of his family and he had even looked forward to it in a way. For believing him to be an all powerful alien who could kill him at any moment, Elliott still treated Five with nothing other than benevolence. He offered him his dress shoes when he noticed Five eying them. He brewed him coffee without needing to be asked and always made sure it was the blend he liked. He made a point to go to the grocery store outside of the hours of 9:00 AM to 10:00 AM, Monday through Friday, just to get something a bit less gelatinous for Five to snack on when he commented on how his head ached one late night and how coffee wasn’t cutting it. Five found that those moments had been some of the most enjoyable he had experienced since returning from the apocalypse at the time.
His eyes flit over the stone once, twice, three times over, and his furrowed brow smooths out with each reading, a small and rather belated revelation hitting him. He feels the edges of his face soften as he scrutinizes the words once more and there’s a small sound of amusement that escapes his lips before a quiet sigh.
Dolores always said he was good at missing something right in front of him.
“Thank you, Elliott. For everything you did for me and for my family. I’ll never forget you.”
It really is a fitting epitaph.