Title: A Name is a Powerful Thing
Fandom: Umbrella Academy
Rating: G
Length: approx. 1250 words
Content notes: None apply
Author notes: I DO write fic that doesn't include small children, but today is not that day. Written for #265: 'Pin or Pen'. Takes place before Grace/Mom is made.
Summary: Pogo has more empathy for them then they will ever care to know.



He has, you see, not always been this way. Aged and, if not wise, then well informed. Equanimous and, if not revered, then hopefully respected. If not respected, then at least tolerated. He is useful to have around. He was made to be so.

When he first came into being, he was emotional and needy, grasping and clumsy. A one hundred pound child with the face - wizened and querulous - of an old man.

“Pogo,” Sir Reginald thundered and, hair standing on end, he’d stamp his feet. He’d yowl, wordless, high-pitched and minor keyed; reach for the nearest object (a Qianlong dragon vase, a Chippendale chair, a Burgher of Calais) and raise it high above his head.

He learned, though. Restraint and discipline. To find a measure of agency within a framework of obedience. The method behind the madness.

The seven are brought to the mansion as befuddled, mewling infants. They grow into capricious, sticky fingered toddlers; into inquisitive, carelessly powerful youngsters. He has more empathy for them than they will ever care to know. They, who see him as a trusted confidant, yes, but also as a lackey and a handmaid. One foot in each world, a thing neither here nor there.

He cannot fault them for thinking this way, because it is true.

Tutors, much like minders and cooks, never remain in their employ for long. Certainly not long enough for their names to be remembered. After the children strapped one to a spinning wheel and threw knives at him; after they slipped clear, tasteless spirits into another's orange juice, intoxicating the poor girl to such an extent that she vomited on Sir Reginald’s desk, he gently suggested that he might be better suited to the task of teaching the children their letters and numbers.

He is capable, after all, of much more than fetching and carrying.

Their father might choose to rank them, but he does not play favorites. All born on the same day, each special in their own way. Number One’s earnest desire to be of service. Number Two’s tenacity. Number Three’s insight into human behavior. Number Four’s wit and Number Five’s brilliance. Number Seven’s deep wellspring of power. All are worthy of notice and respect. Of love.

When it comes to the more traditional aspects of their education, it is Number Six who has not only aptitude but focus, not simply skill but also patience. After his siblings have scampered away he continues to sit: tongue curling, pencil clutched between chubby fingers.

“Bat, cat, rat, sat, mat.”

“Very good.”

“Bin, sin, tin, pin, din. What’s a din?”

“A loud, unpleasant, sustained noise.”

“Like father makes when he’s annoyed.” Number Six’s expression turns mischievous and knowing, “And he’s always annoyed, isn't he, Pogo.”

He blinks slowly; without judgment, without comment. He allows them the occasional rebellious remark, though he does not respond to them.

“Continue, please.”

“Wren, den, hen, pen, Ben.” Number Six frowns. “What’s a Ben?”

“A name. Traditionally, a boy’s name.”

“A name. Like Six. Or Pogo. Or Nanny. Or Cook.”

“Yes.” If he hesitates, it is only for a moment, not long enough for a child of barely five to notice.

Number Six cocks his head and frowns with concentrated thought. “What else is a Ben?”

“I am not sure I understand what you are asking.”

“Well, if a Nanny is someone who takes care of children, and a Pogo is a springy toy you jump up and down on, and a Six is a number and my place in the family, then what else is a Ben?”

“It is nothing else. It means,” he defaults to a rote, dictionary definition, ‘a word or set of words by which a person, animal, place, or thing is known, addressed, or referred to.’” Number Six nods, then pouts with confusion. He attempts to clarify. “A name - and there are many of them, not just one or two, but tens of thousands - is a special word given to beings who think and feel and communicate with others; a word they can use to refer to themselves and that others can refer to them by. It identifies them as a unique individual. Ben, in fact, means son.”

“I am a son.”

“Yes, you are. As are your brothers.”

“So a Ben isn’t a table or a shirt or a rock or a sword or a book or a number or a snail or a job. It’s a person and only a person. A special person.”

“That is correct.”

"How do you get these special names?"

"Usually, parents name their children. Your father chose your name, your brothers' and sisters' names."

"So Father could have named me Ben, but chose Number Six instead?"

He chooses to remain silent.

"I don't like my name," Number Six says definitively, challenging him to disagree.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Who named you?"

"Sir Reginald."

"But you aren't a child."

"Not now."

"Do you like your name? Being called a toy?"

"I have," he responds delicately, "not given it much thought. Now that you ask, I can say that it is satisfactory. I've had it for a long time. I am used to it."

Number Six nods in apparent understanding. After a moment, he frowns again, another question bubbling to the surface, one following the other in an endless stream, as they always do. The child opens his mouth, but in his estimation, it is time to move on from this subject.

“Shall we continue? Afternoon training commences in fifteen minutes, and you must not be late.”

“Because if I am, then Father will make such a din! He’ll want to stick me with a pin! But will have to settle for taking up his pen and writing, in his SEN-sational Notebook, ‘Six is worse than a hen!’” Number Six chortles, face bright with his own cleverness.

He nods, poker-faced (the children cried, the first time he smiled at them, and since then he has been careful to keep his teeth behind his lips). Number Six sighs with aggravation at his refusal to play along. Pogo the Stick, Number Four calls him, before his back is fully turned.

“Rug, mug, hug, tug, bug…”

As they walk down the stairs and through the halls to the back lawn - today the children are scheduled for sprints, balancing exercises and archery - Number Six looks at him, considering and cautious.

“Pogo.”

“Yes, Number Six.”

“Would it be acceptable for me to tell the others, about names?”

His first instinct is to say no. He knows where this query will lead; how their father will react to these indicators of independence, these demands for individuality and selfhood. But he still remembers the occasion of his own name-giving, by Sir Reginald. He thinks about the name he has given himself; that he shares with no one else, that he says quietly to himself, when there is no danger of being overheard.

In the end, he decides, a name is a small thing for their father to let them have. Considering what they have given up, what they will continue to give up, for him and his cause.

He nods his assent and Number Six beams, squeezes his paw and skips ahead.