𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ━ five hargreeves

7│WE'RE NOT LEGALLY REQUIRED TO DO THIS

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

❛ ᴡᴀsᴛᴇʟᴀɴᴅs ᴏғ ᴛɪᴍᴇ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴇɢᴀʟʟʏ
ʀᴇǫᴜɪʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜɪs. ɪɴ ғᴀᴄᴛ, ɪᴛ
ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪғ ᴡᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ. ꒱


❝ I'M DOING MARTIAL ARTS! ❞

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

The world around Dolores faded. She was still in the convenience store— that much was obvious due to the aisles that sat in rows around her— but there weren't any customers. She was very clearly the only one in the shop. Light streamed in from the glass doors to create warm, golden patches on the tiles at the front of the store. It was too incredibly peaceful after witnessing the place being in the throes of a fight. The brunette frowned. "What the. . . hell?"

Some of the brightness faded as a figure took shape on the other side of the door. Her confusion turned into curiosity. A cheery chime sounded as the bell jingled above the door, which was pushed open. A woman's figure took on a more distinctive form the closer she came. Dolores' breath caught in her throat and she could hardly speak above a whisper as she let out the startled question: "mom?"

The woman's brown hair was cut into a sharp bob around her chin and her bangs hung just above her eyes— much like Dolores' had for most of her life. Her angular face seemed to be softer than Dolores remembered and there was an unusual kindness to her eyes. (Now, this wasn't because her mother hadn't been kind, but she had been termed "the enforcer" by Uncle Ed. Her father had been "the comforter.")

"Of course it's me, Dolores." Ah, there she was. No matter how many times she'd insisted on being called 'Lola,' Diana would always use her given name. Although, her answer was spoken more gently than her typical sharp reprimand.

The brunette stared at the woman with a kind of awed reverence. It had been nearly fifty years since she'd seen either of her parents and after everything, she had been beginning to doubt if she ever would again. It only took her a few seconds to jerk herself out of her daze and fling herself at the taller woman.

"Mom!" This was said as more of an exclamation than a question. Any doubts that Dolores might've had about the strangeness of the convenience store evaporated without a second thought.

Diana bent slightly to accommodate their height difference— though Dolores was taller and older than she'd ever been in the original timeline— and wrapped her arms around the slender girl. The teen couldn't hold back her tears as she cried for the second time that day (but still, at least it wasn't about Five.) She wept with relief into the dark, silky material of her mother's blazer.

The woman's arms tightened around her as her slender fingers ran through the short brown strands of Dolores' hair comfortingly. "There's no need for tears, Warrior Girl. It's alright. You've done well."

She couldn't help but feel like she was fifteen again even though it had been years and years since her mind had reflected her age. Sniffing, she pulled away to look up into her mother's warm, brown eyes. "Really?" she asked with her voice full of hope.

"Of course," Diana replied. She sounded slightly surprised that Dolores would think otherwise. "You've done more than anyone could have ever expected." She moved her hand to her daughter's cheek and gently wiped away her tears. "We're proud of you, you know."

Her heart squeezed at the words she longed to hear. Every day for the last five or six decades, she felt like she'd been pushing a ball of twine up a hill. A ball of obligation— that she would happily shoulder— due to her love for Five. She'd said time and time again that she wasn't a hero. She wasn't born to do this, to save the world— that she was one of the people who died instead. No matter how many times she'd tried to explain this to her (now ex-)husband, he'd never seemed to understand because he had been born for this.