There’s a very specific request (command, really) that Allison’s assistant has outlined as part of her job description: anything that comes to her regarding her family, she wants to know. Allison Hargreeves left the Academy just shy of turning 18, and while she has never returned to see her family, she has kept up with them in her own way. It helps that her family is relatively famous, and the world still has some odd fascination with them that they can never quite outgrow especially as they shifted from superhero children to train wreck territory, so she uses it to her advantage. Direct contact with some of her siblings feels too risky, like she’ll get sucked back into the chaos of it all if she gets too close again, so being indirectly updated on what her siblings are up to feels safe.
There’s one, though, that’s the exception to the rule. Allison’s bond with Luther has always been complicated; with Diego it’s too volatile; with Vanya is nonexistent. With Klaus, it’s different. Klaus has always managed to understand Allison in a way that not even Luther can do. Just how she’d been there for him whenever he needed her after nightmares or sleepless nights, she knew well enough that Klaus would do anything to comfort her or just keep her company whenever it was needed, and she’d be lying if she said she hasn’t considered going back to the city just for him. She knows Klaus well enough to know that he wouldn’t try to convince her to stay - if anything, he might convince her to run for the West Coast all over again. But, in true Hargreeves fashion, he has his own demons to contend with (literally) and makes him go off the grid more times than she’d like. Allison has tried calling to check on him, only to find the number disconnected or getting returned mail after sending him a postcard. If her phone rings or sends an alert in the middle of the night, it sends her into a nervous spiral, because half the time she expects someone on the other line to tell her that her brother lost his fight to one of his vices.
It’s ironic, that the call doesn’t come in the middle of the night how she always feared. It’s bright and early, while she and Patrick are eating breakfast and discussing her latest project, that her assistant sends her an urgent text with an address and a phone number. After that, everything is a blur - Patrick insists in going with her, but Allison is quick to say no. He doesn’t have to come with her, she needs to do this alone. And it irks him, she can tell, because she’s so guarded when it comes to her family and he doesn’t understand why he has yet to meet any of them, but she could care less. Her focus as she more or less flies out of their house in the Hollywood Hills is to get to Klaus. He’s not dead, thankfully, and the doctors that she more or less grills with questions over the phone assure her that they are sure he’ll do a full recovery, but it doesn’t change the fact that her heart feels as if it has moved right up to her throat. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s filled with regret at the years they’ve lost together, at the guilt at not being there for him so this wouldn’t have to happen. Some logical side of her knows that Klaus has been on this path long before she left, but it doesn’t change the fact that she hates it, anyway.
By the time she makes it to the hospital, she has Rumored people along the way so that she can remain as incognito as possible. She knows at some point someone will leak that Allison Hargreeves is back to the city, but at least it won’t happen until later. She hopes, at least, she and Klaus will be far enough away from there before that can happen.
After speaking to his doctor and getting an update on her brother’s condition, she slips quietly into his room. She has pulled strings to ensure that he could have a private room, not wanting any prying eyes on either of them, and she’s glad to see him asleep when she walks in. It takes her a moment to move again after the door closes softly behind her, the relief at seeing him alive and the concern for how he looks colliding into her at a force that knocks the wind right out of her, but she doesn’t linger long before she walks closer to the chair next to his bed. The room is so quiet and almost peaceful, with the rain falling outside that she could probably nap along with him if she wanted to, but even if she gets comfortable on the chair, she already knows that there’s no way in hell she’ll be sleeping any time soon.
For now, she just reaches over to gently rest her hand on top of his, a quiet reassurance that he’s not alone. She’s here, and she’s not going anywhere.
Klaus hears the monitors first, the steady, rhythmic beeping and the hissing of an oxygen machine. His throat feels impossibly dry and his head throbs like someone's taken a sledge hammer to his skull. His eyes feel heavy and he can't quite will them to open just yet. He fades in and out, hearing words like dehydration, overdose, malnutrition.
This place doesn't smell or sound or feel like the gas station he'd been in, trying to scrounge up change for a pack of cigarettes. A long night partnered with fatigue, dehydration and what is sure to be a lack of food warranted a kick of nicotine, to re-energize him. The bed he's on doesn't feel like a stranger's bed, doesn't have the weird smells or lumps, doesn't come with the expectation of a morning quickie or blowjob. Everything about this feels wrong in a way he can't quite put his finger on. Is he home? Though that thought passes as quickly as it comes. After all, dear old Dad made it very clear he was to never set foot upon the stoop again if he continued to show up 'inebriated'.
His eyes slowly open and he shifts in his bed, groaning against the fluorescent lighting that seems to sear its way right to his aching brain. Klaus knows that if he moves too much, he's going to throw up. He can feel the way his stomach sloshes, gurgling in his abdomen like an angry creature waiting to claw its way out. "Shit..." He tries to raise his hand to touch his face but feels weight on it, he turns with wide, blood shot eyes, half expecting to see restraints. He's never been here before, never dropped himself this far, and a tiny part of him reels with fear.
But when he sees Allison something twists tight in his gut, makes bile rise up hot and acidic in the back of his throat. Fuck, he has to look a mess right now, and he does. All wild, sweat slicked hair, a mixture of black and electric blue eyeliner smudged around his eyes, skin pale and sallow, his waist trim in a way that nods to his drug use, his lack of self care.
"Allison. Man, you're either dead or I'm still crazy high because you don't live here." He giggles at himself and presses his free hand over his eyes.
If someone walked up to Klaus on the street a month ago and told him he’d be living in his sister’s spare bedroom in California, he would have laughed them into next year. With his family splintered, he half expected that he’d never see them again. Well, unless their father suddenly decided to kick the bucket.
So when he opens his eyes to a dark, unfamiliar ceiling for the first time, he doesn’t know what to think. It takes him a second to recall where he is, how he got there and the like. The week spent in the hotel had been nothing but a blur of withdrawal and treatment by an attractive young doctor Allison hired.
But it’s nearly four in the morning and he feels like he might vibrate out of his skin. The need for something to take the edge off is impossible to ignore, though he knows too well he won’t find anything like that in this house. And if he were to go looking? Well. He’d probably be thrown to the curb by Patrick himself. The man didn’t look thrilled by the sight of him yesterday, and he knows too well the couple had to have some serious talks behind closed doors.
He scrubs his hands over his face, back through his hair, and lets out a shuddering breath. Peeling himself out of the covers, he slides out of bed and peers into the hallway before he wanders downstairs to the kitchen. The walls are perfectly painted, artwork tastefully placed, photos of Allison and Patrick scattered throughout the living spaces.
It feels like a dream.
But he finds the espresso machine, coupled with a keurig and fumbles his way to making coffee in his underwear, clearly without shame in a house that isn’t even his. He leans heavily against the counter and closes his eyes, trying to ward off the the needy hum thrumming under his skin, through his veins.
Allison is beyond relieved to be home. During the worst of Klaus’ withdrawals, she had worried that they wouldn’t get here, that she’d wake up to find him gone for good, or that by the end of it he would tell her that California was no longer an option. She did a good job at not pushing, not wanting to make him feel like she was trying to manipulate him into joining her, but the anxiety of it all made her feel like her nerves were frayed.
Now, at least, they’re home. The room that she had set up for him is nice and comfortable, with a balcony and a private bathroom, and a walk-in closet that she already promised him they could fill. The worst of her “discussions” with Patrick had been done throughout the last week over the phone while Klaus slept in the hotel and she’d go out for ‘walks,’ while in reality she was just trying to smooth the situation before they arrived because she refused to let it fester and explode upon arrival. To his credit, he was cordial and friendly to Klaus, but when he made the mistake of making a side comment once they had gone to bed, Allison had been quick to shut that down. He had two options, she had told him in an angry whisper; he could be supportive and make this easy, or he could stay somewhere else until he got comfortable with the situation. He hadn’t been receptive to that feedback, but the way Allison was like a silent, furious storm after that he was smart enough to not instigate the situation. She knows that, if Klaus slips, it won’t be easy to get Patrick to come around on all this, but she has hope that won’t be the case.
All that hope doesn’t help her stay asleep, though, no matter how comfortable her bed is. There are fleeting thoughts that nag her enough to not let her sleep well, and at one point she startles awake as she dreams of Klaus unconscious, dying without her being able to reach him. The imagery alone is enough to make her slip out of bed, nausea biting at the back of her throat, but she tries to ignore it as she walks out of the room. Her intention is to walk over to Klaus’ room, but the scent of coffee catches her attention before she can get there. The aroma doesn’t help her nausea, but at least it’s enough to help appease her fears of Klaus not being okay.
Tightening the robe she’s wearing, she pads over to the kitchen. Her belly is starting to get hard to hide, the bulge obvious now even with the robe covering it, but she finds herself not minding if. If anything, as she walks she passes a hand absently over it, as if reminding herself that this is really happening. She has her brother in her house, and her baby is growing just fine. Neither come without complications, but for now she’s just content with what she has.
“Should we add a robe to the list of things to get later?” She says it teasingly as she walks into the kitchen, giving him a look at the sight of him in his underwear even if there’s a small smile on her face. She looks a little off, considering the nausea, but she sits down on a stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen as if everything is perfectly fine.
The pseudo Hargreeves household has had a very busy weekend. With Allison gone for a shoot and Patrick off on a business meeting, the whole house has been nothing but one giant play place for Claire and Klaus. He makes sure to fill her days to the brim with activities, especially early on, so she doesn’t miss her parents too terribly much. From swimming to tea parties, from coloring to zoo visits, fashion shows to story time, they while away the time laughing.
Sunday arrives slowly, with a lazy sunrise peeking between the shades and blinds. The kitchen turns into a war zone, flour and syrup on every possible surface tiny hands could manage to reach in their quest to make the perfect tower of french toast. Dishes left behind in a haphazard pile, they turned their attention instead to coloring and creating paper crowns and jewelry from construction paper glued together. A package of plastic jewels sits overturned on the dining room table, globs of tacky, nearly dried Elmer’s glue stuck to its surface. From paper crowns and rings and other accoutrements Claire insisted they watch a princess movie to match their princess attire. (Klaus, of course, dons the crown the little girl made for him and even steals some of Allison’s makeup so that they both have appropriately made up princess faces— at Claire’s insistence.)
So it’s early evening when they finally wind down, and anyone roaming the house might hear the final notes of Cinderella echoing through the house. And where one might think they’d find a rapt audience, little eyes glued to the TV in wonder, they’re left instead with Klaus sprawled on the floor, hair a mess of wild, loose braids topped with a construction paper crown that matches his electric blue eyeshadow. Look closer still and there’s a young girl, maybe 5 years old at best nestled into his chest, with wild, unruly tufts of hair done up in bejeweled barrettes, her makeup just as outlandish as his own.
They sleep soundly, his arms around her small frame, a throw from the couch tucked around her. The little one drools into his shirt, her mouth open as she sleeps, not unlike her Uncle who happens to be snoring ever so slightly, settled into a deep, comfortable sleep. Seems like he forgot to set an alarm.
The soggy battlefield of the A Shau valley plays in rapid succession on the backs of his eyelids, nothing but a shimmering dance of bodies, explosions, the cloying taste of gunpowder on the back of his tongue. The smoke burns his throat, dries it out to the point he feels like he might be dying, sandpaper lungs barely holding any air.
The bath cleaned the blood away, but it's there on the ivory basin, stippled into the grout on the tile foor, sloshed along the hallway in haphazard foot prints, some the slap of bare, wet feet, and a twin pair in the opposite direction, the thick tread of a boot.
His skin all but crawls and for a brief moment, when Klaus opens his eyes, he's sure it will have sloughed off entirely. He blinks but the Valley looms every time the world zips to dark. Dave is there, too, on the muddy bank with wide, lifeless eyes. He'd been so afraid.
Klaus comes to when he hears noise in the hallway, but he looks down at his hands as though they aren't his own, instead two floating anomalies out in front of him. A shirt. Yes. Getting dressed after the bath, even if he simultaneously shivers and sweats, his head full to bursting with white noise and pain. He's managed his pants, even if the ties at the navel are loose, but one hand rises to the dog tags on his chest, fingers barely touching them as though they weren't supposed to be there. As though he hoped they wouldn't be.
"Shit," he whispers to himself and rakes his hands back through his hair, dropping the loose tee onto the bed behind him. He closes his eyes again, tries counting to ten, tries thinking of good things (Claire, Allison, ice cream sundaes on Sundays, the way Patrick pulled him aside before they left to tell him to be careful). None of it works, however he might hope it would.
Allison has been so used to having Klaus near her and her family for the last seven years, that having him gone feels like she’s missing a limb. After discovering that her brother was nowhere to be found, she has been on a frantic search to find him. Diego tried to keep her from “overreacting,” as he called it, making a comment about old habits, but Allison had socked him in the face for his trouble. Luther threaded carefully after that, and at least offered to help, but Allison didn’t bother waiting for anyone before she grabbed her keys and stormed out of the house.
She has lost count how many places she has visited, how many hospitals she has called, but there’s no trace of him anywhere. The only reason she’s back in Academy is because she needs to take a shower and change before she goes back out again, but just as she’s headed to her room she finds the bloody footprints. The water on the floor that’s leading to Klaus’ room. It doesn’t take long before there’s a familiar clacking of heels in the hall before his door is flung open, and Allison is staring at him in disbelief. After trying to find him the last few days, it’s so damn good to see him and for a moment that’s all that matters as she rushes in.
“Klaus? Oh thank god, where have you been?” She wants to hug him, and she will if he lets her, but her eyes are already scanning him for injuries. Except, she catches the other differences - the dog tags, the tattoo.
Ever since Allison and Klaus had returned from their father’s funeral and saving the world, Patrick has been doing what he can to look after them while distracting Claire so that they can have some space. He doesn’t know the full story of what happened, or what they lived through, and it’s not like either of them are really in a sharing mood, but at the end of the day it’s not like it matters. Whatever it was, it had been big enough to affect them so deeply that they feel like shadows of the people that had been here just two weeks ago.
He doesn’t push them, though. Allison spends most of the day sleeping, and when she’s awake it’s just to spend some time with Claire. Not being able to properly interact with her leaves her frustrated and depressed every time, but as much as it feels like it pushes back any progress, he also knows that they need each other. Klaus fakes it well enough with Claire that she still doesn’t quite understand why Uncle Klaus needs to rest, as Patrick insists, but still. Patrick doesn’t want to push him to do something he doesn’t want to, either.
After Claire is down for the night, Patrick goes to bed but doesn’t manage to sleep for long. Like clockwork, he wakes up after midnight, his thoughts too loud to really stay asleep. It doesn’t take long, though, before Allison wakes up, too, frantic as a nightmare rattles her awake. It takes a while before he’s able to get her calm again, but after she finally caves and takes the painkillers she had been prescribed, she manages to doze off. It’s late by then, too late to really be awake especially for him, but instead of pretending to be asleep he heads to the kitchen to make some coffee. Probably not the best idea considering he should probably try to sleep at some point, but it is what it is.
Just as he’s serving himself a mug, the sound of footsteps makes him look up and he can’t quite hide the momentary surprise when he sees Klaus.
“Hey,” he greets lamely, because he should probably say something other than hey. But, he’s just so relieved to see him that it’s the best he can come up with.
Sleep can be difficult to come by these days, what with the nightmares and racing mind the moment he closes his eyes. So Klaus can be found sleeping at odd hours during the day, in odd places, and wide-awake at night.
Tonight's no different, as he tosses and turns in his bed, unable to find a spot comfortable enough to trick his body into sleeping. After half an hour of turning he decides to get up. At the very least he can make some coffee, go smoke, maybe read some shitty tabloid magazine until he's bored to tears.
He tugs on a pair of jeans from the floor, not bothering to button or zip them as he stumbles out of his room. It's mostly for decorum, since Claire can be found wandering around at night when the adults are unable to sleep. When he approaches the kitchen, however, he hears the tell-tale signs of coffee, of movement.
"Top'o the mornin' to you," he murmurs, running a hand back through his hair. It's come out of the messy tie and he takes a moment to knot it back at the top of his head and twist the hairband around it. "God, did you make enough to share? If so I shall propose this very instance and we can finally elope, Patrick my love." His voice lacks the usual energy, even as he tries to keep his voice down.
In the meantime, he opens the refrigerator, pulling out a Chinese takeaway box he'd put in there a few hours ago. He doesn't even bother with chopsticks or a fork. Just pops the container open and plucks out a piece of chicken smothered in a spicy sauce. "I don't see you around these parts very often. What's got you up and boogying at this time of night?"
There are a thousand places that Klaus would rather be than at some stuffy little awards after party. He usually enjoys going out with Allison, making sure she's dressed to the height of fashion before they make some grand, Hollywood entrance. And while she's earned all the accolades this time for her dramatic comeback into show business, Klaus finds this group a little boring.
Some parties have wild music and too much champagne, bouncers and waiters who are eager to get an extra tip, men and women who pass out $100 bills like they're candy on Halloween.
So Klaus has tucked himself along one corner of the bar for a moment, letting Allison strut her stuff and look radiant. As her dutiful plus one tonight, he keeps a watchful eye on her from a distance, occasionally chatting with a few familiar faces, a couple of his celebrity clients, nothing but superficial kisses on cheeks and gushing oh I just love that skirt that train is to die for.
It is a good train, he thinks as he slides off his bar stool, effectively scooping the fabric of his skirt up with him. It's a loud getup, even for the Hollywood elite, but that's how he keeps his nights interesting when he knows the after party is just a glorified networking show and tell. Which his why, to his great surprise, he over hears some laughter, a few shocked whispers. He's heard the name Tony Stark, seen him at a couple of Allison's events, and as it stands he looks to be the most interesting thing in the room.
So with a keen eye for detail, Klaus orders two drinks— something fruity and non-alcoholic for him, and something strong on the rocks for a man he barely knows. He steps up once there's a lull in the conversation, working himself in with a flourish. (But a man who wears a skin-tight crop top and a skirt with an elegant train can hardly go unnoticed).
"Thank god someone has a sense of humor here. I was beginning to wonder if everyone here was dead."
Every once in a while, when Tony is bored, he attends the parties that the Hollywood elites keep begging him to go to. For publicity, to promote something by just having his name attached to it, for the hell of it - he gets too many invitations to keep track of. A lot of the time he tells Pepper to toss them, not even bothering to read them, but every once in a while he ventures out to keep things interesting.
Tonight isn't overly interesting, though, because Klaus isn't the only one that's bored with the current crowd. It has nothing to do with the crowd, though, and more to do with him; although he'll never admit it, this is all starting to get old. The parade of people and the red carpet, the posing, the cameras, the lightbulbs going off in a million directions. Tony has dealt with it all since he was a child, the Stark name demanding him to perform long before he could even realize what he was really doing, and by now it's all an old act. And, to his credit, he plays his part well; he smiles, and drinks, and flirts like a pro.
He's about to slink away to the bar for a refill, almost as an excuse to peel himself away from current company, when he sees the other man walking up to him. Not that he'd be hard to notice, considering his outfit, and he smiles with the usual Stark charisma that basically oozes out of him.
"Not quite, I think there's hope for them, yet." He notices the drinks he's holding, and his smile widens. "Are you that thirsty, or do you need any help with that?"
It has been a month since Tony Stark returned from Afghanistan and he held that fateful press conference. He sees the news reports that Pepper tries to hide from him, the speculation at how he’s coping after being held hostage for three months. No one knows any details of what happened, considering Tony had destroyed the cave and any traces of what his time in captivity looked like, but he knows that he has both Rhodey and Pepper on edge. He barely sleeps, doesn’t really eat, and has been spending a lot of time in the lab. He assures them that he’s fine, he’s just busy and trying to make up three months worth of time with his work, but beyond that it’s almost as if he just traded the cave for his lab. This time, at least, there isn’t anyone holding a gun to his head on a regular basis. He’s not dunked in water barrels whenever he says something stupid as they ask for updates on his work. Obadiah has left him alone, letting him process while he handles the company, and Tony doesn’t think anything of it.
After crossing the month mark, though, Pepper and Rhodey have an intervention, of sorts, trying to get him to at least spend a few hours outside of the lab. They encourage him to go surfing (he doesn’t want to because of the paparazzi), or to go for a drive (no), or maybe just to grab something to eat (too many people). They go back and forth between Tony insisting that he’s fine, and his friends insisting that he’s not, and somewhere along their ‘discussion’ Tony finds himself agreeing to trying yoga. At the house, with a private instructor, and no other people. Pepper insists it’ll be good for him, that maybe he’ll be able to sleep better, and maybe it can help him learn better breathing techniques considering the metal casing that now protrudes from his sternum, but Tony just leaves the room with excuses of work, and not having time for this.
True to her word, though, Pepper sets up the lessons and manages to corral him enough to get him to shower, change, and actually walk out of the lab. It isn’t easy, and Tony almost turns back to the lab on a few occasions, but eventually he’s all but shoved out to the backyard of his house in Malibu so that he can meet his instructor. He feels ridiculous in the jogger pants he’s wearing, the t-shirt that feels too loose on him considering the weight he has lost in the last four months, and he’s all too aware of how he can’t quite hide the glow of the reactor, but Pepper had assured him that it was fine. The instructor had signed a nondisclosure agreement, had excellent references, and she had personally handpicked him so they wouldn’t have any issues.
As he walks over to the spot in the yard where he’s waiting for him, under the trees and with the perfect view of the Pacific Ocean, Tony just sighs under his breath as he wills himself to keep walking. He knows if he doesn’t do this, Pepper and Rhodey will find a way to drag him to see someone else, someone with a ‘M.D’ attached to their name considering they look at him as if he’s cracked, so he has to do this. Or he has to at least give it a shot, just so he can say he tried it even if he has no intention to really stick with it for long.
As he walks closer, though, and the instructor turns around, Tony pauses for a moment as recognition slowly dawns on him. He remembers him, of course, from the party he had attended before going to Las Vegas for the award ceremony, right before he left for Afghanistan. He remembers their time together, their laughs, the way Klaus kept up with him in a way that he never expected out of anyone. It all feels like it happened lifetimes ago, considering how many things have changed in four months, but he after a brief pause he plasters on the usual Tony Stark smile that he’s so used to using. It feels foreign against his lips, considering how long it has been since he has used it, but the old habit kicks in like this is normal. Like he doesn’t have dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t lost weight in the last four months. Like the look in his eyes doesn’t look darker than the last time Klaus had seen him, with shadows and ghosts from all the shit he has lived through in the last four months.
“Klaus Hargreeves, right?” He smiles, all charm as he offers a hand in greeting. His hands are calloused from how much he has been working the last few months, a few small scars and burn marks scattered throughout his arms. Most of them are from the cave, but there’s a bright red mark on the side of his left hand that seems relatively new.
“My assistant mentioned she hired someone, but I didn’t realize it was you.”
When Pepper first contacted him, Klaus admittedly screened the call and let it go to voicemail. He'd been in a grueling match of hide and seek with a little girl who, for all intents and purposes, had claimed to be the champion of all things hide and seek. Klaus naturally had to put her to the test, and by the time the day had come to a close, he'd all but written off the call in favor of sharing dinner with Claire, Allison and Patrick.
But when the same number rang him the follow day, he finally answered. The phone call lasted longer than he'd anticipated, and after a quick coffee meeting with Pepper Potts, Klaus had signed away his big mouth and gained a client. A client who, by name alone, hadn't been unfamiliar to him. That night spent with Tony Stark would have been enough for him to agree to take the man on as a client, but Klaus has seen the news, he'd watched as questions about the missing man popped up in headlines on nearly every station. A wealthy tech giant suddenly silenced. It was sobering.
Which makes walking into the Malibu house a little strange, considering the last he'd seen this place they'd been nothing but a flurry of snarky commentary and playful limbs. And from what he can remember, it'd been a fun little romp for the time they had, and Klaus had easily seen himself out before the sun rose too far into the sky. This time, he'd been welcomed in and guided to the backyard, and with a wiggle of fingers to Pepper he turns his back, soaking in the rolling waves and the clear air.
He's barefoot, two mats laid out in the dappled shade and he's stretching an arm over his head while he enjoys the view. While Tony might feel silly in his joggers, Klaus isn't in anything fancy himself, save for colorful, form fitting yoga leggings and a sleeveless, flowy gray top. Better to relax, let himself enjoy the weather, than to try and determine just how he'll tackle a client like this. Klaus gets the feeling that Pepper desperately wants Tony to be fixed, or better in some sense of the word, and while he might not understand the trauma of an overseas kidnapping, he and Tony had spoken a similar language before: maybe there's some of that left.
He turns when he hears his name and grins, offering his hand like a lady might, for the back to be kissed, but he'll shaky Tony's hand anyway. "Oh, you're that Stark guy, right?" He taps fingers against his chin, looking up thoughtfully. "I think I remember you. Here I thought I proved how flexible I was the last time we met, but by all means, if you want to see more, I'm not here to judge. And with a view like this," a vague, sweeping hand gesture that may or may not playfully include Tony himself, "I could work on my mantras all day."
Tony looks like he's lost some weight, though he's not entirely sure considering the t-shirt, but he does notice the light set into the man's chest. He doesn't let his eyes linger— Pepper's told him all about it, anyway— but he can't help but wonder how painful it is. "But your assistant has decided she'd like to see you attempt yoga. I'm going to need you to at least pretend to be a little excited, I promise I won't make it too painful for you."
Klaus listens to his siblings bicker while they sit in the plastic, sticky bowling alley chairs, but he can't quite shake the image of Vanya screaming from the other side of the vault door. And yet Luther had been immovable, much as he is now, arguing with Diego over plans. It's when Klaus tries to speak up, tries to bring Ben into the conversation when he's shot down, dismissed— is there any way to silence that voice in your head that screams out to be the center of attention?— that a part of him gives up on whatever 'family' they like to try and call themselves.
Even Ben himself shakes his head, concedes in the face of Luther's short-sightedness with a Don't listen to him, Klaus. Klaus could conjure all the ghosts in the world and he's sure that his siblings, save for Allison, would never believe him.
"You know I liked you a lot better when—"
He sees Allison shift in his periphery and the words die on his lips. They don't need this. None of them need this.
"Why don't we all take a nice little break, Number One, and come back when we're not ready to murder each other, alright? We got one murderous sibling, we don't need another one. I really don't think Mr. Manager over there wants blood all over his rotting clown shoes."
A pointed look at Luther, and the comment seems to disarm him, leaving him almost stuttering as Klaus turns his back and beelines to his sister's side. He almost can't look at the bandaging on her neck, can't look at her tired eyes, can't remember the way her blood had spilled all over the cabin floor.
"Hey," he murmurs, all the gusto from earlier gone, revealing the fatigued man beneath. If only they would listen. He finds himself rolling his eyes at the sheer irony: Allison who can't speak, and Klaus who isn't allowed to speak. "Wanna get some fresh air? God knows I'm tired of smelling stale popcorn and little Kenny's mom's rancid perfume."
For someone that has always been very vocal about her opinions, having to sit silently and only having a notepad and a sharpie to 'speak' has been torture. It hasn't even been 24 hours since she had woken up to this new silent reality, and she already hates everything about it. Having to argue and fight with Luther at the house had proven to be a complete and utter failure, but having to sit here while he essentially dismissed Klaus - again - and sounded like he was planning on killing Vanya? Allison is ready to try to pick up one of those bowling balls and tossing it in Luther's direction.
Things shouldn't have gotten to this. She hates that Vanya is being blamed for what happened to her, because Allison knows damn well that it had been her fault. She had pushed her, she hadn't done things right. She had ruined her life, a voice sneers in the back of her head, and for a moment she looks almost sick as the realization that Reginald had used her in that way smacks her right in the face. Luther shouldn't have locked up Vanya. They should be at the Academy right now, trying to fix this. They should be helping their sister. The Academy shouldn't be destroyed. Grace and Pogo shouldn't be dead.
How did everything get turned upside down so badly?
As Klaus walks over to her, Allison catches the way that Luther looks over at her but there's nothing but an icy glare that gets shot right back. She feels like shit, considering she had literally almost bled out the night before, but she's running on pure adrenaline and rage at this point. She can feel the heaviness of exhaustion throughout her body, feels a little lightheaded when she stands at Klaus's suggestion, but it doesn't stop her. She just grabs the notepad, where a very clear FUCK OFF, LUTHER is scribbled from when Luther had quipped about Klaus crying out for attention, but it's not like it did anything. Allison Hargreeves has never liked feeling helpless, but this whole not being able to even interject properly to defend her brother is more painful than the cut along her neck.
As they walk towards the doors, she takes Klaus's hand and gives it a small squeeze. If he turns to look in her direction, she'll mouth a silent 'I'm sorry,' because she wishes things could be different. Because she wishes Luther would have just let him talk.
More importantly, because she doesn't think she'll ever be able to apologize enough for dragging him out here for this bullshit.
Even though Pogo's phone call had come moments before the news stations picked it up, he still feels like he's dreaming. Their life back in the Academy feels like nothing but a weird, faded, silent film chock full of strangers and memories that don't quite belong to him. Their faces crop up on the news, cropped into images of the Academy home, or images of them when they were younger, the domino masks angled across their faces.
The anchors discuss the man's philanthropic and political work, his cold demeanor, the whereabouts of all the Hargreeves children, the absolute failure of Vanya's book, the funeral plans, a will. Their lives are scrawled indelicately across CNN and BBC and FOX broadcasts, diluted and set upon a high, shining pedestal.
No matter how he and Allison had tried to rationalize their way around staying in California and forgetting the death happened at all, they couldn't. The confirmation for the flight the next morning glares at him from his phone. They're going home. No, going to their childhood home, but this apartment he sits in now is home. The place where a little girl sleeps easily in her bed before 9 PM, where a dutiful husband makes both his wife and his bother-in-law dinner because they forgot food existed.
This is home.
It's after said dinner that Allison disappears to read a bed time story to Claire and Klaus stays behind to help do the dishes, if only so he can show Patrick that he's grateful, even if he's not sure how to find the words.
"Dinner was excellent, as always, you should be a Michelin Star chef with skills like those. You're sure you don't want to elope with me, love?"
The playful lilt stays absent from his voice and when Klaus looks over at Patrick to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively, it falls short. He's terrified. Going home means returning to old temptations, means cracking open old wounds and older fears and rubbing salt in them all just to watch them sizzle. "You could come to fancy New York with us, we could have a wonderful little tryst in a sordid Manhattan motel, really make a tragic date of it."
It's easy to pretend that what lies ahead of them doesn't exist, that the plane won't take them to a barren house where all good things, where all hopes and dreams go to die.
It's impossible to ignore the way that both Allison's and Klaus's entire demeanor shifted the moment the phone call came about their father's passing. Not only for what happened, but there's almost a sense of dread that has enveloped the entire house, especially after the decision is made that they are headed to the East Coast to attend the funeral. He had tried to talk to Allison, tried to assure her that they don't have to go. That they don't owe anyone anything, because even if Patrick doesn't know a whole lot about the way they were raised, he knows enough.
The flights have been booked, though, and Allison had hardly accepted a hug from him before she bristled past him to read to Claire.
He's in the process of clearing the table when Klaus speaks, and he smirks - mainly to try to keep up the charade like how his brother-in-law is doing. Klaus has lived with them enough that he can tell the difference in him as well, the way that his voice has changed since that phone call, but he doesn't break the illusion. Not yet, anyway. If Klaus needs this, some sense of normalcy, then he'll give it to him even if it's just for a moment.
Setting some extra dishes next to the sink, Patrick gives Klaus's shoulder a pat. "You know, if I didn't have meetings and Claire had school, I may consider it. Timing is just not on our side." Since all the dishes are cleared, he moves to the coffee maker because he has a feeling only Claire will be sleeping tonight.
The payphone booth smells like piss and old beer, stale cigarette smoke and sweat, probably leftover from the old man who sleeps in here under the buzzing fluorescent light at night. Klaus's right hand sits on the receiver, the other clutches the handful of coins he has left to his name.
How long he's stood here like this is up for debate as every time he blinks, he can see nothing but the locked doors of the Academy and a duffle bag left on the stoop. His palms burn from how long he beat on the wood, his throat sore for how long he screamed until someone answered. Sure, he hadn't been there in a few days, and the last time he had been, he'd passed out in the sitting room, only to be woken by his father, furious.
You are nothing but an utter waste of space and energy Number Four. Such a disappointment.
But he'd heard that spiel his whole life, hadn't he? So it's not his father's words that stick with him but the cold, unfeeling way Luther stared at him when he answered the door. Klaus knew the moment he saw him, how straight he'd been standing, how he seemed to look past him, not at him, that whatever his brother was sent to say, it wouldn't be good.
If you don't stop, we're calling the police. Leave, Klaus.
Klaus spent the first night asleep on their stoop, where he dreamed Pogo came and tucked some containers of food in his duffle bag while he slept. The second night he curled up on the fire escape after a police officer told him to move along. And now, in the middle of the night, he sits crowded into a phone booth with nothing but the handful of coins and his bag at his feet.
It's cold outside, though, and the booth provides some relief from the wind at least. It cuts him open, leaves wounds raw and stinging, because he doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know where he can go when he has no one. Diego, perhaps? No, he doesn't even know how to find him. Vanya's around, but she probably hates his guts anyway, so there's no point. Allison's gone, and Klaus is sure he just saw her face on the front page of People magazine.
He has a coat, some socks, a pair of jeans and some shirts in his bag. A pack of stale cigarettes, a flash full of shitty vodka, a small bag of pills that's dwindling quickly, and the half a sandwich he has left from Pogo. Not much he can do with any of it. Not even enough to clean his existence off the face of the planet. Even Ben stays distant these days, or maybe that's the drugs shooing him out of his purview for now.
With a deep breath he drops the coins into the little slot and from his pocket he draws an old, beaten up postcard, folded into eighths, Allison's handwriting scrawled upon it, a phone number at the bottom.
What will he say? What can he do? She'll worry, if she knows what happened. But she promised to come back, didn't she? They promised. Both of them. When the operator connects him he waits for the ringing. The postcard is old now, does she even have the same number? But the line clicks and Klaus takes a deep breath, not even waiting to hear the person answer. He can't stand to know he's wrong out the gate.
"Ah, yes, I'm looking for the ever highly esteemed Allison Hargreeves? In the new blockbuster, the feature film on all those billboards and oh, her interview in People. If you haven't read it, you must," he breathes, his voice hoarse in a way that makes it feel like it belongs to someone else. "You know the one. Is she in?"
Life has been a whirlwind for Allison ever since her arrival in Los Angeles. She had quickly found out that venturing out into the real world with hardly any real life experience (or even exposure to life) hadn’t really been smart - especially at her age, and especially on her own - but her ability has come in handy on a few occasions. Finding shelter, getting a job, getting back to people that have gotten too handsy or want to exploit her. It hasn’t been easy, and there have been more than a few occasions when she has wanted nothing more than to pack her bags and go back to the safety of home, but at the end of the day she never had. She knows Klaus and Luther would welcome her back with open arms (or she hopes so, anyway), but their father? She’d be lucky if he let her back in, let alone let her stay, so in the end she had stuck it out.
And, lately, it was finally paying off. She had managed to get the right connection one night while working at the piano bar she worked at, and had landed a relatively big spot in a musical. After that, everything has been snowballing since. She’ll never admit which things since that night required some minor ‘adjustments’ in terms of her guiding events to happen in her favor, but she was finally making a name for herself. Not for the Academy, although a lot of people still seemed to remember that, but for herself. For her acting, for her singing, for what she could bring to the table.
As it is, tonight she’s going over her lines for a new movie she’s in. Her new apartment isn’t too big, but it’s nice and it gives her a beautiful view of Los Angeles. It’s the first thing she had spent money on after the check cleared when she signed on to the movie - get a new place, in a decent neighborhood, and with a killer view. It’s too much for someone her age, but she had been adamant about those requirements. Especially the view. There are days when she still misses New York, when the smog and the sunshine of the City of Angels is almost obnoxious, but the view of the skyline helps. She knows deep down, though, that she doesn’t miss the city itself. Allison isn’t that sentimental. She misses the good parts of her life she left behind. She misses Klaus, and being able to share her ascend to stardom with him how she had hoped she would. The view of the city is just a reminder of what she’s here to do.
When the call comes in, Allison’s brow furrows. It’s too late for it to be her agent, but she picks up nonetheless. When the operator tells her where the call is from, she’s quick to accept the call as she sinks onto one of the stools in her kitchen. Even from where she is, she can see the skyline of the city, the twinkling of lights that keep her company at night.
At the sound of Klaus’s voice, she smiles at once, nothing but relief and happiness at hearing her brother on the other line.
“She most definitely is. To what do I owe such a pleasant surprise?” It’s so good to hear his voice, and Klaus will be able to tell as much through the phone. Allison writes to him, and she doesn’t doubt that Reginald is aware of it, but it hasn’t stopped her from doing it regularly. It mainly consists of filling him in on her good finds of the West Coast, as if trying to convince him in some way of joining her. Is today finally that day?
The hoarseness in his voice registers, though, and she frowns slightly again, concerned. It’s the middle of the night back home, after all, and while she knows his sleeping schedule isn’t the best...this isn’t exactly something he has done before. “Are you okay, Klaus?”
Diego doesn’t remember the last time he slept, but as he stalks the halls of the Academy, sleep is the last thing on his mind. Not only had Patch been killed, but he’s wanted for her murder while the bastards that left her to bleed out alone in some cheap ass motel room are free. And now one of his sisters is barely clinging to life, all because his other sister’s boyfriend had almost killed her. After the blood transfusion, both Mom and Pogo had felt more confident about Allison’s prognosis, but it doesn’t take away the sense of guilt that he’s drowning in. If he hadn’t been arrested, if he would have left with Allison, maybe this wouldn’t be happening. Maybe Harold Jenkins would be in jail right now - or, if it’s Diego’s choice, he would be six feet under right about now.
He will fix that, though. The rage he’s feeling is consuming him, that thirst for revenge over Patch, over Allison burning through him as if he doused himself with kerosene and now he wants to torch down the world along with him.
But, there’s something he needs to do before he gets to that. Diego isn’t particularly close with any of his siblings - there’s too much hurt, too much anger, too much resentment within them to properly connect - but there has always been an overprotective streak to him when it comes to any of them. It’s the one thing they all seem to coincide on; the world begins and ends with each other, and while they’ve spent over a decade apart, he quietly walks over to the infirmary where he knows Klaus is with Allison. Last he had heard, she has yet to regain consciousness, but he’s not here to see her. Not really, anyway. He’s here to check on Klaus. Klaus who, despite all the shit he and Luther have been saying, only seems to keep proving them wrong by still being here. He’s not off somewhere, getting drunk or high or finding any sort of escapism that could give him some sort of reprieve from the chaos they’re living in. Klaus, who he has to admit looks so different than the last time he had seen him.
If he’s honest with himself, that’s part of the reason why he keeps expecting him to fall back to old habits. Almost as if some part of him wants to cling to the image of Klaus that he knows, because it kills him to realize how much he doesn’t actually recognize this version of his brother. It’s fucked up, and god does he know it, but the Hargreeves are nothing if not selfish sons of bitches from time to time, and apparently he’s no exception.
Grabbing a chair from one side of the room, he pulls it over to set it next to where Klaus is sitting. Allison still looks so damn pale that it makes his stomach drop again, the memory of her bleeding out in that cabin burning through his mind, but he forces himself to not really stare at her. Instead, he turns to Klaus after a moment.
“Pogo said she’ll probably be out for a while. Why don’t you go get some sleep?” His voice is low, the usual gruffness giving way for some of the concern he’s feeling for his siblings. Even Klaus (especially Klaus). “You look like shit, man.”
Klaus will never be able to scrub the image of Allison bleeding on the cabin floor out of his mind, won't be able to stop feeling the warm, sticky blood on his hands as he held the wound in the car, as he all but screamed at Luther and Five to go faster. But they'd made it in time, and after the transfusion from Diego, she seemed to settle into recovery.
The chair hurts his back, his ass is numb, and he's hungry, but he won't leave her side until her eyes open, until there's some sign that she'll be okay. His mind goes in and out sometimes, and he wonders if he should text Patrick, if he should call him and beg him to come because everything has gotten so fucked up in their short time away from home. And oh, to see Claire again, to go back to their little house and sit as a group on the couch with a movie playing in the background.
They have to save the world, though. They have to save Vanya, and they can't do that from California. He lost Dave. He can't lose Allison, he can't lose Vanya. He can't lose anyone else, because he's not sure his heart will stand up under that pressure.
Klaus almost doesn't hear the door open, the plod of Diego's boots on the floor, but he turns at the sound of the chair, his hands wringing together in front of him. "Who needs sleep," he laughs weakly, letting out a sigh. "Not I, said the Hargreeves Pariah. I can stay up for days, no speed necessary, promise! Besides, looking like shit is all the rage these days." He tosses his hair, frizzy and mottled with sweat and stippled with blood from his hands earlier.
"I won't leave her alone, and I will be here when she wakes up. But if you would fancy an argument, by all means," he says tiredly, waving vaguely toward the door of the infirmary, but a toothy sort of smile spreads across his face. It isn't warm. "Luther tried, too. I won."
But Klaus will give Diego credit where it's due— at the veteran's bar, on the car ride home, he had been kind a way that Klaus hadn't expected, seeing as he's heard nothing but quips about his sobriety from the moment he stepped foot on the landing. But for all the barbed wire and biting comments, Diego had listened, he'd been there. That's the fucked up thing about their family, isn't it? At the end of the day, there's something left to hold onto, to love.
It takes Diego all of two days to decide to pack up a suitcase (although that’s a very loose term, considering it’s more of a beat up gym bag than anything else) and get on a flight to Los Angeles. Which he hates, considering he’s not thrilled with flying, but after the last few weeks of working with his siblings to get Vanya back on track, he figures he should do this. After all, Klaus is home with Allison alone now, and she wasn’t doing too hot herself despite how much she’d try to hide it in front of everyone. It’s not fair for Klaus to be shouldering all this on his own, especially since he has his own shit to deal with, so...yeah. He’s flying to Los Angeles.
The truth is, of course, very different. Not that he’s not worried about Allison - he is. Just...that’s not necessarily the real reason why he’s flying across the country. It’s not even entirely the fact that Klaus probably does need help with Allison. He misses them, and while technically he should probably stick around New York, it feels pointless right now. Patch is gone. Klaus is gone. What the hell does he have to stay there for? It’s not a permanent move, he’s not ready for that. But it’s still a pretty big one, despite his efforts of convincing himself that it’s not.
By the time he arrives, he’s immediately hit by how much warmer it is in Los Angeles than New York. And how much sunnier it is, which he already hates. As the taxi drives over to Allison’s, Diego tries to picture his siblings in the streets that they drive by, trying to picture their lives here in what seems to be a whole other world than what they grew up in, and he forces himself to ignore the way he feels like an outsider. Like someone looking in. Should he have jumped on the plane without even letting Klaus know? What if he shows up and they don’t need him?
It’s too late to turn back now, though, especially as the car pulls up to the house and Diego gets out. His joints feel stiff from the long flight, trying to adjust to the timezone change since right now he’d be napping before heading out on patrol, but instead he’s here. In some swanky neighborhood in the Hollywood hills.
Grasping tighter onto the handle of his luggage, he walks up the path to the front door and rings the doorbell, letting out a sigh under his breath as he tries to ignore the way his stomach seems to flutter with anticipation.
The last week has been nothing but an absolute whirlwind. Klaus has done his best to try and keep his spirits up on their return home, but the days have passed in an odd sort of silence. Claire, thrilled to see them back, bounces around and plays music, but looks sorrowfully at the bedroom where where Allison rests. Where Patrick can't soothe the little girl, Klaus does his best to distract her, trying to find ways to help her communicate with her mother, be it in cards or videos or little notes left on breakfast trays.
Needless to say, Klaus is tired, but he's just gotten little Claire down for a nap when he hears the doorbell. Patrick's off at work, so he's not entirely sure who could be ringing. A rogue girl scout? A delivery? A tricky thief ready to hold him at gunpoint?
He pries himself off the couch on the second ring, but doesn't bother to actually make himself more presentable. Yoga pants and a sheer, lacy kimono are clothes enough, an with the heatwave they've been experiencing lately? Well, let someone complain. He happens to be sporting a tiara and a long set of gaudy pink pearls a la Claire pre-nap time, but he's all but forgotten them at this point.
He swings open the door without checking to see who's outside, "So sorry, the lady of the house is in repose at the moment, you'll have to—" A blink, a stare, when he really takes in who waits on the other side of the threshold. It doesn't add up, Diego with the bright cut of Hollywood hills as his backdrop.
"Diego?" His voice goes quiet, almost a whisper, a hand clenching the door. It's like his brain stalls, the walls and fronts raised for the sake of Patrick, Claire, and Allison stuttering, shuddering against the very breath of fresh air that his brother is. "Holy shit," he laughs and all but throws himself at his brother, knocking the tiara askew in unkempt curls as his arms curl around his shoulders. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Everything had happened so quickly, had spun out of control beneath his feet, and yet, somehow, they did it. He spends his days waiting for the retribution, waiting for the fact that the Commission will inevitably find him, hunt him down, and punish him for the myriad crimes he's committed over the years pressed under the Handler's thumb.
It's been a week with the family huddled around Vanya, trying to help guide and teach her how to use her powers. Better, he thinks, than being locked in some holding cell deep in the belly of the mansion. He'd only heard about it second hand from his siblings, but needless to say, Luther's kept his distance. The house, for all its activity, still feels strangely foreign to him. The corridors and rooms unfamiliar, having been gone for the better part of four decades. Everything, from the moment he was discovered in the apocalypse to now had been for this moment, hadn't it? All the work, all the killing, all the bloodshed, to bring him here.
He stands in the foyer, hands tucked into his pockets, staring up at the grand stair case and the backlit windows overhead. It had been nothing but a cracked foundation and ash, his siblings but lawn ornaments against the backdrop of a broken world. There's cleanup to do still, bodies to make sure the police never find, messes to clean, buildings to burn. Too many wild, loose ends for his liking, especially when he doesn't have briefcase, doesn't have the means to wrap it all up in a bow and ship it off.
The house feels small, even though he must look even smaller against it. What does he do now. Every moment, rushing and running and desperately reaching for this and, what? He foolishly hadn't considered his options, hadn't drawn out what his life might be on the blueprint, only his family's.
Delores is tucked safely back in the consignment shop; Allison, Klaus, Diego and Vanya seem to work tirelessly to teach her control; Luther keeps his distance, though not without a watchful, concerned eye. Five joins, occasionally, sitting in a window to watch them work, to blink across the room if only to spare one of his siblings an errant ball or item Vanya tries to control. Baby steps, but he marvels at how natural it feels to sit and watch Vanya discover her talents surrounded by care. Faults, mistakes, lead to gentle encouragement. No punishment or cruel training waits around the bend, and for the first time in all of Five's strange, time-twisted life, he feels the family collectively exhale.
Reginald Hargreeves knew what they were capable of, knew one of the ways he might harness that power, but even the wisest men on Earth don't have all the answers. He didn't have access to this moment in the catalogue, where Extraordinary humans find a way to move forward in the most ordinary of ways.
But a week, nearly two, passes, and it sees Klaus and Allison finally going home, leaving Vanya stable and comfortable enough to slowly practice her abilities. Five finds her sometimes, spars with her in the Great Room, in the halls, and tries to quietly foster the wonder he catches behind her eyes. It fills the time. Luther and Diego? Well, who the hell knows what they're planning. The world is changed, and what that means for whatever future they weren't meant to have, he doesn't know. He'll need to find out. He has to. How he does that, however, is the next step.
Shaking his head, he moves away from the landing. How much time has passed since Vanya left and he saw her out, he doesn't know. He makes his way down the stairs, deep in thought, when he opens one front doors and narrowly misses hitting Diego, managing to blink his way down a few steps to avoid a collision.
"If you're looking for Vanya, she's gone."
Gone home, of course. Haven't all of them? Five's not sure anywhere will feel like home to him anymore. "Grace is in the library, Pogo's in the old man's office, and Luther's licking his wounds in the attic."
The call comes in the middle of the night and wakes Klaus, the ringer setting his teeth on edge and sending him flying up out of his bed. He thinks, at first, it's just a byproduct of a nightmare, that the sound he heard is nothing but a shriek from a ghost or spirit, but it continues, loud and sharp, coupled with the dull rattling of vibration.
A phone.
And when he answers the unknown number, irritated and groggy, all it takes is to hear Diego Hargreeves and injured and no emergency contact and your number for his feet to scramble, his heart to pound in his chest. It's the very first time he feels actual anger with himself that he doesn't drive, that he doesn't have a car, because calling an uber takes too damn long.
(So he calls in a favor to a man he shouldn't, calls in a favor for a car and something fast because dear god he needs to get to the hospital now because his brother needs him and please don't tell Allison whatever you do).
He makes a weary mental note to thank Tony Stark later. Somehow.
The driver (what was his name? Happy?) manages to get him all the way to the ER entrance and, with great surprise, someone waits there to take him through the hospital. It feels like his world's nothing but a twisted blur because his siblings aren't meant to get hurt, especially this one. First Allison, now Diego? And why? He should have been there to stop all of it.
He's brought to a hospital room and he's sure he'll pass out from lack of breathing, but he walks in, looks over his brother, sedated and pale on the hospital bed. The nurses rattle what they think's happened, the extent of the injuries, but it doesn't stick. He'll send a ghost for information later if he needs to, but he sits for what feels like hours at Diego's bedside in the ER room, waiting. The sedatives and painkillers will have to wear off sometime.
Getting back to patrolling hadn’t been a question of if, but when. He waits, of course, until things with his family are a little bit less frayed. Until his siblings are relatively put back together. He needs to make sure that they don’t need him, after all, before he goes off to tend to other people that do. People that need to be protected, people that need to be guarded. People that Patch would do anything in her power to keep safe, one way or another.
That’s why, the last few nights, Diego had started listening to the police scanner, and had found a way to find a frequency to listen into the 9-1-1 calls that could point him in the right direction. Patch wouldn’t approve, and that voice in his head that sounded an awfully lot like her told him as much, but it didn’t stop him. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. It was his job, after all. He may not be part of the Umbrella Academy anymore, his siblings may not do what he does, but Diego can’t stop. He knows what he can do. He knows he can make a difference. He knows he can help, so why the hell would he stop?
It doesn’t occur to him to slow down, though. To process what happened just how he’d insist with his siblings, because he’s fine. He was fine. He just needed to get back into the swing of things. He needed to keep doing what he was made to do. He needed to do what Patch couldn’t do anymore, and it’s that last factor that ironically caused him to be more aggressive. More reckless. The grief and the anger that has been pent up within him, burning through his veins like lava, has been bursting at the seams despite the demeanor that he carries with his siblings. And, when he had caught a group of thieves trying to get away, he didn’t think twice about it before he started running after them. On his own. In a neighborhood he didn’t know, without even bothering to listen if any sort of backup was coming. He didn’t need them, after all he could handle this himself.
...until he hadn’t. He had been so busy trying to fight one of the men he caught up to (or, rather, trying to hurt him almost viciously), that he missed the way another one hit him over the head with enough force to make him stop. Diego fought back, of course, one after the other until everything went dark.
As he begins to wake up, though, he doesn't really remember much of the fight. Hell, even trying to think past that feels like a strain. His thoughts feel disjointed, his mind in a haze that he can't quite get out of. For a moment he half wonders if he's underwater, if he's being tested again, if Reginald is finally satisfied with his results this time. Maybe he'll let him sleep, he thinks. Maybe he'll let him take a break. Maybe they can go get donuts, and...
No, that's...not it, is it. He blinks his eyes open despite the effort that it actually takes to do so, and although it feels like it takes forever for his eyes to focus, it all slowly starts clicking together. The beeping of the monitors, the sterile smell of the hospital room. The IV (needles needles needles), but before he can think of pulling it out, he notices his brother. He looks so worried, he notices sluggishly, but it hasn't fully clicked that it's because of him. The pain from the broken ribs, the dislocated shoulder and the concussion is slowly becoming more apparent now that the painkillers are starting to wear off, but...well. This isn't that new for him, considering his line of work.
(Normally it would be Patch sitting nearby, or standing by the door, ready to chew him out. But she's not here, and his heart feels like it twists in his chest at the realization.)
"Shit, what..." He tries to take a breath, but can't quite hide the groan that slips out in the process, the way the pain feels like it knocks the air out of his lungs for a moment despite his best attempts. "...what are you doing here?"
It hasn't been easy adjusting to the New York City streets, but if there's anything he's learned from living under the tutelage of one Reginald Hargreeves, it's that everything is uncertain and terrible and one must know how to deal with it. He's had the ability to effortless bend to his surroundings for such a long time that once he got over the initial shock, all those survivalist skills kicked in.
And that's exactly what he's done, hopping from stranger to stranger, fingers dipping into wallets and pockets when possible, outstaying his welcome in their beds whenever the opportunity arose. Klaus Hargreeves is nothing more than an unfortunate opportunist at his core.
He makes acquaintances along the way while he bounces in and out of rehabs when he can't find a good spot to snuggle up, but today he feels like he's living like a king. Pills washed down with cheap swill and he's on his way, floating down the street with the euphoria of having an extra thirty bucks in his pocket from lunch after he sidled up to a very drunk, very pretty little thing the night before.
Klaus tips his head into the afternoon sun, humming at its warmth, ignoring the looks of those who pass by. He's a sight, all tight jeans and tighter shirt, eyeliner smudged a la Grace Kelly in a terrible car accident, a beat-up leather backpack purse slung over one shoulder. But he got sleep, he's got the hum and hiss of static in his ears, and there's a Denny's two blocks up calling his name.
He's singing to himself, headphones from his cheap walkman blasting the tune Sweet Caroline and he has no qualms about singing it to himself as he walks down the street. So much so that in one dramatic spin on the infamous ba ba ba of the chorus, he all but crashes into someone on the street, skidding on the pavement and falling back on his ass. "Whoops, sorry, Neil just gets my withers quivering, if you know what I mean."
He laughs at himself, but it chokes up in the back of his throat when he sees exactly who he's run into. That's a face he hasn't seen in, what? Months? Years? Definitely years.
"Diego?" Still in shock, he stays planted on the sidewalk, staring at his brother.
Joining the police academy hadn't necessarily been easy, but the moment Diego set his mind to it, he worked his ass off to earn himself a spot. Leaving the Umbrella Academy may have been easy to do, but making it on his own hadn't been. Still, he never let himself even consider going back to Reginald. Occasionally, yes, he would stop by to check on Mom and Pogo, but beyond that? The old man could rot in hell, for all he cared.
Although, as much as he hates to sometimes even admit it to himself, the training that Reginald had put them through has been helping him in a lot of of the tests he has been taking. He's fast, he's strong, and he knows that he's a hell of an asset to the police force. His trainer may hate his attitude, but Diego knows what he's worth. He knows what he can do, he just needs to pass this little hurdle so that he can actually do something right. He can actually do some good, because he doesn't want to be mopping Al's floor for the rest of his life.
He's going over some notes for a test that he has to take later (those he hates, and he really wishes everything was more of a physical exam than an intellectual one), distracted by the note that Eudora had written on a corner of the page, when he bumps into someone and Diego himself stumbles back. He doesn't fall, his reflexes kicking in immediately, but all that almost goes out the window when he hears that voice. When he sees his brother staring back at him, and for a moment he has to remind himself to speak.
"You alright?" He offers his hand to help him up, taking in how his brother looks. His clothes, the make up. How fucking skinny he is, and Diego has to refrain from frowning even if his brow almost twitches from the effort. Diego has been living a pretty modest life, but between his training at the boxing gym, and now what he has been doing for the police academy, he looks fit, his muscles in his arms toned.
He's so distracted by Klaus, that it doesn't click yet that he's wearing a shirt from the police academy. That it's giving a glimpse of his current life; a life that no one else in his family has been privy to for years now, because Diego cut himself off from that world the second he saw an opportunity to do so.
Despite that, though, his words are sincere as he speaks again. "It's good to see you, Klaus."
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if the sky comes falling down, for you there’s nothing in this world I wouldn't do;
There’s one, though, that’s the exception to the rule. Allison’s bond with Luther has always been complicated; with Diego it’s too volatile; with Vanya is nonexistent. With Klaus, it’s different. Klaus has always managed to understand Allison in a way that not even Luther can do. Just how she’d been there for him whenever he needed her after nightmares or sleepless nights, she knew well enough that Klaus would do anything to comfort her or just keep her company whenever it was needed, and she’d be lying if she said she hasn’t considered going back to the city just for him. She knows Klaus well enough to know that he wouldn’t try to convince her to stay - if anything, he might convince her to run for the West Coast all over again. But, in true Hargreeves fashion, he has his own demons to contend with (literally) and makes him go off the grid more times than she’d like. Allison has tried calling to check on him, only to find the number disconnected or getting returned mail after sending him a postcard. If her phone rings or sends an alert in the middle of the night, it sends her into a nervous spiral, because half the time she expects someone on the other line to tell her that her brother lost his fight to one of his vices.
It’s ironic, that the call doesn’t come in the middle of the night how she always feared. It’s bright and early, while she and Patrick are eating breakfast and discussing her latest project, that her assistant sends her an urgent text with an address and a phone number. After that, everything is a blur - Patrick insists in going with her, but Allison is quick to say no. He doesn’t have to come with her, she needs to do this alone. And it irks him, she can tell, because she’s so guarded when it comes to her family and he doesn’t understand why he has yet to meet any of them, but she could care less. Her focus as she more or less flies out of their house in the Hollywood Hills is to get to Klaus. He’s not dead, thankfully, and the doctors that she more or less grills with questions over the phone assure her that they are sure he’ll do a full recovery, but it doesn’t change the fact that her heart feels as if it has moved right up to her throat. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s filled with regret at the years they’ve lost together, at the guilt at not being there for him so this wouldn’t have to happen. Some logical side of her knows that Klaus has been on this path long before she left, but it doesn’t change the fact that she hates it, anyway.
By the time she makes it to the hospital, she has Rumored people along the way so that she can remain as incognito as possible. She knows at some point someone will leak that Allison Hargreeves is back to the city, but at least it won’t happen until later. She hopes, at least, she and Klaus will be far enough away from there before that can happen.
After speaking to his doctor and getting an update on her brother’s condition, she slips quietly into his room. She has pulled strings to ensure that he could have a private room, not wanting any prying eyes on either of them, and she’s glad to see him asleep when she walks in. It takes her a moment to move again after the door closes softly behind her, the relief at seeing him alive and the concern for how he looks colliding into her at a force that knocks the wind right out of her, but she doesn’t linger long before she walks closer to the chair next to his bed. The room is so quiet and almost peaceful, with the rain falling outside that she could probably nap along with him if she wanted to, but even if she gets comfortable on the chair, she already knows that there’s no way in hell she’ll be sleeping any time soon.
For now, she just reaches over to gently rest her hand on top of his, a quiet reassurance that he’s not alone. She’s here, and she’s not going anywhere.
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This place doesn't smell or sound or feel like the gas station he'd been in, trying to scrounge up change for a pack of cigarettes. A long night partnered with fatigue, dehydration and what is sure to be a lack of food warranted a kick of nicotine, to re-energize him. The bed he's on doesn't feel like a stranger's bed, doesn't have the weird smells or lumps, doesn't come with the expectation of a morning quickie or blowjob. Everything about this feels wrong in a way he can't quite put his finger on. Is he home? Though that thought passes as quickly as it comes. After all, dear old Dad made it very clear he was to never set foot upon the stoop again if he continued to show up 'inebriated'.
His eyes slowly open and he shifts in his bed, groaning against the fluorescent lighting that seems to sear its way right to his aching brain. Klaus knows that if he moves too much, he's going to throw up. He can feel the way his stomach sloshes, gurgling in his abdomen like an angry creature waiting to claw its way out. "Shit..." He tries to raise his hand to touch his face but feels weight on it, he turns with wide, blood shot eyes, half expecting to see restraints. He's never been here before, never dropped himself this far, and a tiny part of him reels with fear.
But when he sees Allison something twists tight in his gut, makes bile rise up hot and acidic in the back of his throat. Fuck, he has to look a mess right now, and he does. All wild, sweat slicked hair, a mixture of black and electric blue eyeliner smudged around his eyes, skin pale and sallow, his waist trim in a way that nods to his drug use, his lack of self care.
"Allison. Man, you're either dead or I'm still crazy high because you don't live here." He giggles at himself and presses his free hand over his eyes.
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california dreaming;
So when he opens his eyes to a dark, unfamiliar ceiling for the first time, he doesn’t know what to think. It takes him a second to recall where he is, how he got there and the like. The week spent in the hotel had been nothing but a blur of withdrawal and treatment by an attractive young doctor Allison hired.
But it’s nearly four in the morning and he feels like he might vibrate out of his skin. The need for something to take the edge off is impossible to ignore, though he knows too well he won’t find anything like that in this house. And if he were to go looking? Well. He’d probably be thrown to the curb by Patrick himself. The man didn’t look thrilled by the sight of him yesterday, and he knows too well the couple had to have some serious talks behind closed doors.
He scrubs his hands over his face, back through his hair, and lets out a shuddering breath. Peeling himself out of the covers, he slides out of bed and peers into the hallway before he wanders downstairs to the kitchen. The walls are perfectly painted, artwork tastefully placed, photos of Allison and Patrick scattered throughout the living spaces.
It feels like a dream.
But he finds the espresso machine, coupled with a keurig and fumbles his way to making coffee in his underwear, clearly without shame in a house that isn’t even his. He leans heavily against the counter and closes his eyes, trying to ward off the the needy hum thrumming under his skin, through his veins.
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Now, at least, they’re home. The room that she had set up for him is nice and comfortable, with a balcony and a private bathroom, and a walk-in closet that she already promised him they could fill. The worst of her “discussions” with Patrick had been done throughout the last week over the phone while Klaus slept in the hotel and she’d go out for ‘walks,’ while in reality she was just trying to smooth the situation before they arrived because she refused to let it fester and explode upon arrival. To his credit, he was cordial and friendly to Klaus, but when he made the mistake of making a side comment once they had gone to bed, Allison had been quick to shut that down. He had two options, she had told him in an angry whisper; he could be supportive and make this easy, or he could stay somewhere else until he got comfortable with the situation. He hadn’t been receptive to that feedback, but the way Allison was like a silent, furious storm after that he was smart enough to not instigate the situation. She knows that, if Klaus slips, it won’t be easy to get Patrick to come around on all this, but she has hope that won’t be the case.
All that hope doesn’t help her stay asleep, though, no matter how comfortable her bed is. There are fleeting thoughts that nag her enough to not let her sleep well, and at one point she startles awake as she dreams of Klaus unconscious, dying without her being able to reach him. The imagery alone is enough to make her slip out of bed, nausea biting at the back of her throat, but she tries to ignore it as she walks out of the room. Her intention is to walk over to Klaus’ room, but the scent of coffee catches her attention before she can get there. The aroma doesn’t help her nausea, but at least it’s enough to help appease her fears of Klaus not being okay.
Tightening the robe she’s wearing, she pads over to the kitchen. Her belly is starting to get hard to hide, the bulge obvious now even with the robe covering it, but she finds herself not minding if. If anything, as she walks she passes a hand absently over it, as if reminding herself that this is really happening. She has her brother in her house, and her baby is growing just fine. Neither come without complications, but for now she’s just content with what she has.
“Should we add a robe to the list of things to get later?” She says it teasingly as she walks into the kitchen, giving him a look at the sight of him in his underwear even if there’s a small smile on her face. She looks a little off, considering the nausea, but she sits down on a stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen as if everything is perfectly fine.
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Sunday arrives slowly, with a lazy sunrise peeking between the shades and blinds. The kitchen turns into a war zone, flour and syrup on every possible surface tiny hands could manage to reach in their quest to make the perfect tower of french toast. Dishes left behind in a haphazard pile, they turned their attention instead to coloring and creating paper crowns and jewelry from construction paper glued together. A package of plastic jewels sits overturned on the dining room table, globs of tacky, nearly dried Elmer’s glue stuck to its surface. From paper crowns and rings and other accoutrements Claire insisted they watch a princess movie to match their princess attire. (Klaus, of course, dons the crown the little girl made for him and even steals some of Allison’s makeup so that they both have appropriately made up princess faces— at Claire’s insistence.)
So it’s early evening when they finally wind down, and anyone roaming the house might hear the final notes of Cinderella echoing through the house. And where one might think they’d find a rapt audience, little eyes glued to the TV in wonder, they’re left instead with Klaus sprawled on the floor, hair a mess of wild, loose braids topped with a construction paper crown that matches his electric blue eyeshadow. Look closer still and there’s a young girl, maybe 5 years old at best nestled into his chest, with wild, unruly tufts of hair done up in bejeweled barrettes, her makeup just as outlandish as his own.
They sleep soundly, his arms around her small frame, a throw from the couch tucked around her. The little one drools into his shirt, her mouth open as she sleeps, not unlike her Uncle who happens to be snoring ever so slightly, settled into a deep, comfortable sleep. Seems like he forgot to set an alarm.
we can light a match and burn it down;
The bath cleaned the blood away, but it's there on the ivory basin, stippled into the grout on the tile foor, sloshed along the hallway in haphazard foot prints, some the slap of bare, wet feet, and a twin pair in the opposite direction, the thick tread of a boot.
His skin all but crawls and for a brief moment, when Klaus opens his eyes, he's sure it will have sloughed off entirely. He blinks but the Valley looms every time the world zips to dark. Dave is there, too, on the muddy bank with wide, lifeless eyes. He'd been so afraid.
Klaus comes to when he hears noise in the hallway, but he looks down at his hands as though they aren't his own, instead two floating anomalies out in front of him. A shirt. Yes. Getting dressed after the bath, even if he simultaneously shivers and sweats, his head full to bursting with white noise and pain. He's managed his pants, even if the ties at the navel are loose, but one hand rises to the dog tags on his chest, fingers barely touching them as though they weren't supposed to be there. As though he hoped they wouldn't be.
"Shit," he whispers to himself and rakes his hands back through his hair, dropping the loose tee onto the bed behind him. He closes his eyes again, tries counting to ten, tries thinking of good things (Claire, Allison, ice cream sundaes on Sundays, the way Patrick pulled him aside before they left to tell him to be careful). None of it works, however he might hope it would.
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She has lost count how many places she has visited, how many hospitals she has called, but there’s no trace of him anywhere. The only reason she’s back in Academy is because she needs to take a shower and change before she goes back out again, but just as she’s headed to her room she finds the bloody footprints. The water on the floor that’s leading to Klaus’ room. It doesn’t take long before there’s a familiar clacking of heels in the hall before his door is flung open, and Allison is staring at him in disbelief. After trying to find him the last few days, it’s so damn good to see him and for a moment that’s all that matters as she rushes in.
“Klaus? Oh thank god, where have you been?” She wants to hug him, and she will if he lets her, but her eyes are already scanning him for injuries. Except, she catches the other differences - the dog tags, the tattoo.
“Are you okay?”
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the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love
He doesn’t push them, though. Allison spends most of the day sleeping, and when she’s awake it’s just to spend some time with Claire. Not being able to properly interact with her leaves her frustrated and depressed every time, but as much as it feels like it pushes back any progress, he also knows that they need each other. Klaus fakes it well enough with Claire that she still doesn’t quite understand why Uncle Klaus needs to rest, as Patrick insists, but still. Patrick doesn’t want to push him to do something he doesn’t want to, either.
After Claire is down for the night, Patrick goes to bed but doesn’t manage to sleep for long. Like clockwork, he wakes up after midnight, his thoughts too loud to really stay asleep. It doesn’t take long, though, before Allison wakes up, too, frantic as a nightmare rattles her awake. It takes a while before he’s able to get her calm again, but after she finally caves and takes the painkillers she had been prescribed, she manages to doze off. It’s late by then, too late to really be awake especially for him, but instead of pretending to be asleep he heads to the kitchen to make some coffee. Probably not the best idea considering he should probably try to sleep at some point, but it is what it is.
Just as he’s serving himself a mug, the sound of footsteps makes him look up and he can’t quite hide the momentary surprise when he sees Klaus.
“Hey,” he greets lamely, because he should probably say something other than hey. But, he’s just so relieved to see him that it’s the best he can come up with.
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Tonight's no different, as he tosses and turns in his bed, unable to find a spot comfortable enough to trick his body into sleeping. After half an hour of turning he decides to get up. At the very least he can make some coffee, go smoke, maybe read some shitty tabloid magazine until he's bored to tears.
He tugs on a pair of jeans from the floor, not bothering to button or zip them as he stumbles out of his room. It's mostly for decorum, since Claire can be found wandering around at night when the adults are unable to sleep. When he approaches the kitchen, however, he hears the tell-tale signs of coffee, of movement.
"Top'o the mornin' to you," he murmurs, running a hand back through his hair. It's come out of the messy tie and he takes a moment to knot it back at the top of his head and twist the hairband around it. "God, did you make enough to share? If so I shall propose this very instance and we can finally elope, Patrick my love." His voice lacks the usual energy, even as he tries to keep his voice down.
In the meantime, he opens the refrigerator, pulling out a Chinese takeaway box he'd put in there a few hours ago. He doesn't even bother with chopsticks or a fork. Just pops the container open and plucks out a piece of chicken smothered in a spicy sauce. "I don't see you around these parts very often. What's got you up and boogying at this time of night?"
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this ain't for the best, my reputation's never been worse;
Some parties have wild music and too much champagne, bouncers and waiters who are eager to get an extra tip, men and women who pass out $100 bills like they're candy on Halloween.
So Klaus has tucked himself along one corner of the bar for a moment, letting Allison strut her stuff and look radiant. As her dutiful plus one tonight, he keeps a watchful eye on her from a distance, occasionally chatting with a few familiar faces, a couple of his celebrity clients, nothing but superficial kisses on cheeks and gushing oh I just love that skirt that train is to die for.
It is a good train, he thinks as he slides off his bar stool, effectively scooping the fabric of his skirt up with him. It's a loud getup, even for the Hollywood elite, but that's how he keeps his nights interesting when he knows the after party is just a glorified networking show and tell. Which his why, to his great surprise, he over hears some laughter, a few shocked whispers. He's heard the name Tony Stark, seen him at a couple of Allison's events, and as it stands he looks to be the most interesting thing in the room.
So with a keen eye for detail, Klaus orders two drinks— something fruity and non-alcoholic for him, and something strong on the rocks for a man he barely knows. He steps up once there's a lull in the conversation, working himself in with a flourish. (But a man who wears a skin-tight crop top and a skirt with an elegant train can hardly go unnoticed).
"Thank god someone has a sense of humor here. I was beginning to wonder if everyone here was dead."
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Tonight isn't overly interesting, though, because Klaus isn't the only one that's bored with the current crowd. It has nothing to do with the crowd, though, and more to do with him; although he'll never admit it, this is all starting to get old. The parade of people and the red carpet, the posing, the cameras, the lightbulbs going off in a million directions. Tony has dealt with it all since he was a child, the Stark name demanding him to perform long before he could even realize what he was really doing, and by now it's all an old act. And, to his credit, he plays his part well; he smiles, and drinks, and flirts like a pro.
He's about to slink away to the bar for a refill, almost as an excuse to peel himself away from current company, when he sees the other man walking up to him. Not that he'd be hard to notice, considering his outfit, and he smiles with the usual Stark charisma that basically oozes out of him.
"Not quite, I think there's hope for them, yet." He notices the drinks he's holding, and his smile widens. "Are you that thirsty, or do you need any help with that?"
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this hell feels better with you;
After crossing the month mark, though, Pepper and Rhodey have an intervention, of sorts, trying to get him to at least spend a few hours outside of the lab. They encourage him to go surfing (he doesn’t want to because of the paparazzi), or to go for a drive (no), or maybe just to grab something to eat (too many people). They go back and forth between Tony insisting that he’s fine, and his friends insisting that he’s not, and somewhere along their ‘discussion’ Tony finds himself agreeing to trying yoga. At the house, with a private instructor, and no other people. Pepper insists it’ll be good for him, that maybe he’ll be able to sleep better, and maybe it can help him learn better breathing techniques considering the metal casing that now protrudes from his sternum, but Tony just leaves the room with excuses of work, and not having time for this.
True to her word, though, Pepper sets up the lessons and manages to corral him enough to get him to shower, change, and actually walk out of the lab. It isn’t easy, and Tony almost turns back to the lab on a few occasions, but eventually he’s all but shoved out to the backyard of his house in Malibu so that he can meet his instructor. He feels ridiculous in the jogger pants he’s wearing, the t-shirt that feels too loose on him considering the weight he has lost in the last four months, and he’s all too aware of how he can’t quite hide the glow of the reactor, but Pepper had assured him that it was fine. The instructor had signed a nondisclosure agreement, had excellent references, and she had personally handpicked him so they wouldn’t have any issues.
As he walks over to the spot in the yard where he’s waiting for him, under the trees and with the perfect view of the Pacific Ocean, Tony just sighs under his breath as he wills himself to keep walking. He knows if he doesn’t do this, Pepper and Rhodey will find a way to drag him to see someone else, someone with a ‘M.D’ attached to their name considering they look at him as if he’s cracked, so he has to do this. Or he has to at least give it a shot, just so he can say he tried it even if he has no intention to really stick with it for long.
As he walks closer, though, and the instructor turns around, Tony pauses for a moment as recognition slowly dawns on him. He remembers him, of course, from the party he had attended before going to Las Vegas for the award ceremony, right before he left for Afghanistan. He remembers their time together, their laughs, the way Klaus kept up with him in a way that he never expected out of anyone. It all feels like it happened lifetimes ago, considering how many things have changed in four months, but he after a brief pause he plasters on the usual Tony Stark smile that he’s so used to using. It feels foreign against his lips, considering how long it has been since he has used it, but the old habit kicks in like this is normal. Like he doesn’t have dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t lost weight in the last four months. Like the look in his eyes doesn’t look darker than the last time Klaus had seen him, with shadows and ghosts from all the shit he has lived through in the last four months.
“Klaus Hargreeves, right?” He smiles, all charm as he offers a hand in greeting. His hands are calloused from how much he has been working the last few months, a few small scars and burn marks scattered throughout his arms. Most of them are from the cave, but there’s a bright red mark on the side of his left hand that seems relatively new.
“My assistant mentioned she hired someone, but I didn’t realize it was you.”
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But when the same number rang him the follow day, he finally answered. The phone call lasted longer than he'd anticipated, and after a quick coffee meeting with Pepper Potts, Klaus had signed away his big mouth and gained a client. A client who, by name alone, hadn't been unfamiliar to him. That night spent with Tony Stark would have been enough for him to agree to take the man on as a client, but Klaus has seen the news, he'd watched as questions about the missing man popped up in headlines on nearly every station. A wealthy tech giant suddenly silenced. It was sobering.
Which makes walking into the Malibu house a little strange, considering the last he'd seen this place they'd been nothing but a flurry of snarky commentary and playful limbs. And from what he can remember, it'd been a fun little romp for the time they had, and Klaus had easily seen himself out before the sun rose too far into the sky. This time, he'd been welcomed in and guided to the backyard, and with a wiggle of fingers to Pepper he turns his back, soaking in the rolling waves and the clear air.
He's barefoot, two mats laid out in the dappled shade and he's stretching an arm over his head while he enjoys the view. While Tony might feel silly in his joggers, Klaus isn't in anything fancy himself, save for colorful, form fitting yoga leggings and a sleeveless, flowy gray top. Better to relax, let himself enjoy the weather, than to try and determine just how he'll tackle a client like this. Klaus gets the feeling that Pepper desperately wants Tony to be fixed, or better in some sense of the word, and while he might not understand the trauma of an overseas kidnapping, he and Tony had spoken a similar language before: maybe there's some of that left.
He turns when he hears his name and grins, offering his hand like a lady might, for the back to be kissed, but he'll shaky Tony's hand anyway. "Oh, you're that Stark guy, right?" He taps fingers against his chin, looking up thoughtfully. "I think I remember you. Here I thought I proved how flexible I was the last time we met, but by all means, if you want to see more, I'm not here to judge. And with a view like this," a vague, sweeping hand gesture that may or may not playfully include Tony himself, "I could work on my mantras all day."
Tony looks like he's lost some weight, though he's not entirely sure considering the t-shirt, but he does notice the light set into the man's chest. He doesn't let his eyes linger— Pepper's told him all about it, anyway— but he can't help but wonder how painful it is. "But your assistant has decided she'd like to see you attempt yoga. I'm going to need you to at least pretend to be a little excited, I promise I won't make it too painful for you."
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time moves slow when half of your heart has yet to come home;
Klaus listens to his siblings bicker while they sit in the plastic, sticky bowling alley chairs, but he can't quite shake the image of Vanya screaming from the other side of the vault door. And yet Luther had been immovable, much as he is now, arguing with Diego over plans. It's when Klaus tries to speak up, tries to bring Ben into the conversation when he's shot down, dismissed— is there any way to silence that voice in your head that screams out to be the center of attention?— that a part of him gives up on whatever 'family' they like to try and call themselves.
Even Ben himself shakes his head, concedes in the face of Luther's short-sightedness with a Don't listen to him, Klaus. Klaus could conjure all the ghosts in the world and he's sure that his siblings, save for Allison, would never believe him.
"You know I liked you a lot better when—"
He sees Allison shift in his periphery and the words die on his lips. They don't need this. None of them need this.
"Why don't we all take a nice little break, Number One, and come back when we're not ready to murder each other, alright? We got one murderous sibling, we don't need another one. I really don't think Mr. Manager over there wants blood all over his rotting clown shoes."
A pointed look at Luther, and the comment seems to disarm him, leaving him almost stuttering as Klaus turns his back and beelines to his sister's side. He almost can't look at the bandaging on her neck, can't look at her tired eyes, can't remember the way her blood had spilled all over the cabin floor.
"Hey," he murmurs, all the gusto from earlier gone, revealing the fatigued man beneath. If only they would listen. He finds himself rolling his eyes at the sheer irony: Allison who can't speak, and Klaus who isn't allowed to speak. "Wanna get some fresh air? God knows I'm tired of smelling stale popcorn and little Kenny's mom's rancid perfume."
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Things shouldn't have gotten to this. She hates that Vanya is being blamed for what happened to her, because Allison knows damn well that it had been her fault. She had pushed her, she hadn't done things right. She had ruined her life, a voice sneers in the back of her head, and for a moment she looks almost sick as the realization that Reginald had used her in that way smacks her right in the face. Luther shouldn't have locked up Vanya. They should be at the Academy right now, trying to fix this. They should be helping their sister. The Academy shouldn't be destroyed. Grace and Pogo shouldn't be dead.
How did everything get turned upside down so badly?
As Klaus walks over to her, Allison catches the way that Luther looks over at her but there's nothing but an icy glare that gets shot right back. She feels like shit, considering she had literally almost bled out the night before, but she's running on pure adrenaline and rage at this point. She can feel the heaviness of exhaustion throughout her body, feels a little lightheaded when she stands at Klaus's suggestion, but it doesn't stop her. She just grabs the notepad, where a very clear FUCK OFF, LUTHER is scribbled from when Luther had quipped about Klaus crying out for attention, but it's not like it did anything. Allison Hargreeves has never liked feeling helpless, but this whole not being able to even interject properly to defend her brother is more painful than the cut along her neck.
As they walk towards the doors, she takes Klaus's hand and gives it a small squeeze. If he turns to look in her direction, she'll mouth a silent 'I'm sorry,' because she wishes things could be different. Because she wishes Luther would have just let him talk.
More importantly, because she doesn't think she'll ever be able to apologize enough for dragging him out here for this bullshit.
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had to sneak in one tag for a cute closer ok;
keep breathing don't lose your nerve, i can't do this alone;
Even though Pogo's phone call had come moments before the news stations picked it up, he still feels like he's dreaming. Their life back in the Academy feels like nothing but a weird, faded, silent film chock full of strangers and memories that don't quite belong to him. Their faces crop up on the news, cropped into images of the Academy home, or images of them when they were younger, the domino masks angled across their faces.
The anchors discuss the man's philanthropic and political work, his cold demeanor, the whereabouts of all the Hargreeves children, the absolute failure of Vanya's book, the funeral plans, a will. Their lives are scrawled indelicately across CNN and BBC and FOX broadcasts, diluted and set upon a high, shining pedestal.
No matter how he and Allison had tried to rationalize their way around staying in California and forgetting the death happened at all, they couldn't. The confirmation for the flight the next morning glares at him from his phone. They're going home. No, going to their childhood home, but this apartment he sits in now is home. The place where a little girl sleeps easily in her bed before 9 PM, where a dutiful husband makes both his wife and his bother-in-law dinner because they forgot food existed.
This is home.
It's after said dinner that Allison disappears to read a bed time story to Claire and Klaus stays behind to help do the dishes, if only so he can show Patrick that he's grateful, even if he's not sure how to find the words.
"Dinner was excellent, as always, you should be a Michelin Star chef with skills like those. You're sure you don't want to elope with me, love?"
The playful lilt stays absent from his voice and when Klaus looks over at Patrick to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively, it falls short. He's terrified. Going home means returning to old temptations, means cracking open old wounds and older fears and rubbing salt in them all just to watch them sizzle. "You could come to fancy New York with us, we could have a wonderful little tryst in a sordid Manhattan motel, really make a tragic date of it."
It's easy to pretend that what lies ahead of them doesn't exist, that the plane won't take them to a barren house where all good things, where all hopes and dreams go to die.
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The flights have been booked, though, and Allison had hardly accepted a hug from him before she bristled past him to read to Claire.
He's in the process of clearing the table when Klaus speaks, and he smirks - mainly to try to keep up the charade like how his brother-in-law is doing. Klaus has lived with them enough that he can tell the difference in him as well, the way that his voice has changed since that phone call, but he doesn't break the illusion. Not yet, anyway. If Klaus needs this, some sense of normalcy, then he'll give it to him even if it's just for a moment.
Setting some extra dishes next to the sink, Patrick gives Klaus's shoulder a pat. "You know, if I didn't have meetings and Claire had school, I may consider it. Timing is just not on our side." Since all the dishes are cleared, he moves to the coffee maker because he has a feeling only Claire will be sleeping tonight.
"Want a cup, or save it for later?"
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there's such a difference between us and a million miles;
How long he's stood here like this is up for debate as every time he blinks, he can see nothing but the locked doors of the Academy and a duffle bag left on the stoop. His palms burn from how long he beat on the wood, his throat sore for how long he screamed until someone answered. Sure, he hadn't been there in a few days, and the last time he had been, he'd passed out in the sitting room, only to be woken by his father, furious.
You are nothing but an utter waste of space and energy Number Four. Such a disappointment.
But he'd heard that spiel his whole life, hadn't he? So it's not his father's words that stick with him but the cold, unfeeling way Luther stared at him when he answered the door. Klaus knew the moment he saw him, how straight he'd been standing, how he seemed to look past him, not at him, that whatever his brother was sent to say, it wouldn't be good.
If you don't stop, we're calling the police. Leave, Klaus.
Klaus spent the first night asleep on their stoop, where he dreamed Pogo came and tucked some containers of food in his duffle bag while he slept. The second night he curled up on the fire escape after a police officer told him to move along. And now, in the middle of the night, he sits crowded into a phone booth with nothing but the handful of coins and his bag at his feet.
It's cold outside, though, and the booth provides some relief from the wind at least. It cuts him open, leaves wounds raw and stinging, because he doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know where he can go when he has no one. Diego, perhaps? No, he doesn't even know how to find him. Vanya's around, but she probably hates his guts anyway, so there's no point. Allison's gone, and Klaus is sure he just saw her face on the front page of People magazine.
He has a coat, some socks, a pair of jeans and some shirts in his bag. A pack of stale cigarettes, a flash full of shitty vodka, a small bag of pills that's dwindling quickly, and the half a sandwich he has left from Pogo. Not much he can do with any of it. Not even enough to clean his existence off the face of the planet. Even Ben stays distant these days, or maybe that's the drugs shooing him out of his purview for now.
With a deep breath he drops the coins into the little slot and from his pocket he draws an old, beaten up postcard, folded into eighths, Allison's handwriting scrawled upon it, a phone number at the bottom.
What will he say? What can he do? She'll worry, if she knows what happened. But she promised to come back, didn't she? They promised. Both of them. When the operator connects him he waits for the ringing. The postcard is old now, does she even have the same number? But the line clicks and Klaus takes a deep breath, not even waiting to hear the person answer. He can't stand to know he's wrong out the gate.
"Ah, yes, I'm looking for the ever highly esteemed Allison Hargreeves? In the new blockbuster, the feature film on all those billboards and oh, her interview in People. If you haven't read it, you must," he breathes, his voice hoarse in a way that makes it feel like it belongs to someone else. "You know the one. Is she in?"
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And, lately, it was finally paying off. She had managed to get the right connection one night while working at the piano bar she worked at, and had landed a relatively big spot in a musical. After that, everything has been snowballing since. She’ll never admit which things since that night required some minor ‘adjustments’ in terms of her guiding events to happen in her favor, but she was finally making a name for herself. Not for the Academy, although a lot of people still seemed to remember that, but for herself. For her acting, for her singing, for what she could bring to the table.
As it is, tonight she’s going over her lines for a new movie she’s in. Her new apartment isn’t too big, but it’s nice and it gives her a beautiful view of Los Angeles. It’s the first thing she had spent money on after the check cleared when she signed on to the movie - get a new place, in a decent neighborhood, and with a killer view. It’s too much for someone her age, but she had been adamant about those requirements. Especially the view. There are days when she still misses New York, when the smog and the sunshine of the City of Angels is almost obnoxious, but the view of the skyline helps. She knows deep down, though, that she doesn’t miss the city itself. Allison isn’t that sentimental. She misses the good parts of her life she left behind. She misses Klaus, and being able to share her ascend to stardom with him how she had hoped she would. The view of the city is just a reminder of what she’s here to do.
When the call comes in, Allison’s brow furrows. It’s too late for it to be her agent, but she picks up nonetheless. When the operator tells her where the call is from, she’s quick to accept the call as she sinks onto one of the stools in her kitchen. Even from where she is, she can see the skyline of the city, the twinkling of lights that keep her company at night.
At the sound of Klaus’s voice, she smiles at once, nothing but relief and happiness at hearing her brother on the other line.
“She most definitely is. To what do I owe such a pleasant surprise?” It’s so good to hear his voice, and Klaus will be able to tell as much through the phone. Allison writes to him, and she doesn’t doubt that Reginald is aware of it, but it hasn’t stopped her from doing it regularly. It mainly consists of filling him in on her good finds of the West Coast, as if trying to convince him in some way of joining her. Is today finally that day?
The hoarseness in his voice registers, though, and she frowns slightly again, concerned. It’s the middle of the night back home, after all, and while she knows his sleeping schedule isn’t the best...this isn’t exactly something he has done before. “Are you okay, Klaus?”
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Oh, Father tell me, do we get what we deserve?
He will fix that, though. The rage he’s feeling is consuming him, that thirst for revenge over Patch, over Allison burning through him as if he doused himself with kerosene and now he wants to torch down the world along with him.
But, there’s something he needs to do before he gets to that. Diego isn’t particularly close with any of his siblings - there’s too much hurt, too much anger, too much resentment within them to properly connect - but there has always been an overprotective streak to him when it comes to any of them. It’s the one thing they all seem to coincide on; the world begins and ends with each other, and while they’ve spent over a decade apart, he quietly walks over to the infirmary where he knows Klaus is with Allison. Last he had heard, she has yet to regain consciousness, but he’s not here to see her. Not really, anyway. He’s here to check on Klaus. Klaus who, despite all the shit he and Luther have been saying, only seems to keep proving them wrong by still being here. He’s not off somewhere, getting drunk or high or finding any sort of escapism that could give him some sort of reprieve from the chaos they’re living in. Klaus, who he has to admit looks so different than the last time he had seen him.
If he’s honest with himself, that’s part of the reason why he keeps expecting him to fall back to old habits. Almost as if some part of him wants to cling to the image of Klaus that he knows, because it kills him to realize how much he doesn’t actually recognize this version of his brother. It’s fucked up, and god does he know it, but the Hargreeves are nothing if not selfish sons of bitches from time to time, and apparently he’s no exception.
Grabbing a chair from one side of the room, he pulls it over to set it next to where Klaus is sitting. Allison still looks so damn pale that it makes his stomach drop again, the memory of her bleeding out in that cabin burning through his mind, but he forces himself to not really stare at her. Instead, he turns to Klaus after a moment.
“Pogo said she’ll probably be out for a while. Why don’t you go get some sleep?” His voice is low, the usual gruffness giving way for some of the concern he’s feeling for his siblings. Even Klaus (especially Klaus). “You look like shit, man.”
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The chair hurts his back, his ass is numb, and he's hungry, but he won't leave her side until her eyes open, until there's some sign that she'll be okay. His mind goes in and out sometimes, and he wonders if he should text Patrick, if he should call him and beg him to come because everything has gotten so fucked up in their short time away from home. And oh, to see Claire again, to go back to their little house and sit as a group on the couch with a movie playing in the background.
They have to save the world, though. They have to save Vanya, and they can't do that from California. He lost Dave. He can't lose Allison, he can't lose Vanya. He can't lose anyone else, because he's not sure his heart will stand up under that pressure.
Klaus almost doesn't hear the door open, the plod of Diego's boots on the floor, but he turns at the sound of the chair, his hands wringing together in front of him. "Who needs sleep," he laughs weakly, letting out a sigh. "Not I, said the Hargreeves Pariah. I can stay up for days, no speed necessary, promise! Besides, looking like shit is all the rage these days." He tosses his hair, frizzy and mottled with sweat and stippled with blood from his hands earlier.
"I won't leave her alone, and I will be here when she wakes up. But if you would fancy an argument, by all means," he says tiredly, waving vaguely toward the door of the infirmary, but a toothy sort of smile spreads across his face. It isn't warm. "Luther tried, too. I won."
But Klaus will give Diego credit where it's due— at the veteran's bar, on the car ride home, he had been kind a way that Klaus hadn't expected, seeing as he's heard nothing but quips about his sobriety from the moment he stepped foot on the landing. But for all the barbed wire and biting comments, Diego had listened, he'd been there. That's the fucked up thing about their family, isn't it? At the end of the day, there's something left to hold onto, to love.
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...
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Whenever your world starts crashing down, that’s when you find me;
The truth is, of course, very different. Not that he’s not worried about Allison - he is. Just...that’s not necessarily the real reason why he’s flying across the country. It’s not even entirely the fact that Klaus probably does need help with Allison. He misses them, and while technically he should probably stick around New York, it feels pointless right now. Patch is gone. Klaus is gone. What the hell does he have to stay there for? It’s not a permanent move, he’s not ready for that. But it’s still a pretty big one, despite his efforts of convincing himself that it’s not.
By the time he arrives, he’s immediately hit by how much warmer it is in Los Angeles than New York. And how much sunnier it is, which he already hates. As the taxi drives over to Allison’s, Diego tries to picture his siblings in the streets that they drive by, trying to picture their lives here in what seems to be a whole other world than what they grew up in, and he forces himself to ignore the way he feels like an outsider. Like someone looking in. Should he have jumped on the plane without even letting Klaus know? What if he shows up and they don’t need him?
It’s too late to turn back now, though, especially as the car pulls up to the house and Diego gets out. His joints feel stiff from the long flight, trying to adjust to the timezone change since right now he’d be napping before heading out on patrol, but instead he’s here. In some swanky neighborhood in the Hollywood hills.
Grasping tighter onto the handle of his luggage, he walks up the path to the front door and rings the doorbell, letting out a sigh under his breath as he tries to ignore the way his stomach seems to flutter with anticipation.
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Needless to say, Klaus is tired, but he's just gotten little Claire down for a nap when he hears the doorbell. Patrick's off at work, so he's not entirely sure who could be ringing. A rogue girl scout? A delivery? A tricky thief ready to hold him at gunpoint?
He pries himself off the couch on the second ring, but doesn't bother to actually make himself more presentable. Yoga pants and a sheer, lacy kimono are clothes enough, an with the heatwave they've been experiencing lately? Well, let someone complain. He happens to be sporting a tiara and a long set of gaudy pink pearls a la Claire pre-nap time, but he's all but forgotten them at this point.
He swings open the door without checking to see who's outside, "So sorry, the lady of the house is in repose at the moment, you'll have to—" A blink, a stare, when he really takes in who waits on the other side of the threshold. It doesn't add up, Diego with the bright cut of Hollywood hills as his backdrop.
"Diego?" His voice goes quiet, almost a whisper, a hand clenching the door. It's like his brain stalls, the walls and fronts raised for the sake of Patrick, Claire, and Allison stuttering, shuddering against the very breath of fresh air that his brother is. "Holy shit," he laughs and all but throws himself at his brother, knocking the tiara askew in unkempt curls as his arms curl around his shoulders. "What the hell are you doing here?"
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ᴏʜ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴏ ᴡᴇ ɢᴏ ɴᴏᴡ ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ?
Everything had happened so quickly, had spun out of control beneath his feet, and yet, somehow, they did it. He spends his days waiting for the retribution, waiting for the fact that the Commission will inevitably find him, hunt him down, and punish him for the myriad crimes he's committed over the years pressed under the Handler's thumb.
It's been a week with the family huddled around Vanya, trying to help guide and teach her how to use her powers. Better, he thinks, than being locked in some holding cell deep in the belly of the mansion. He'd only heard about it second hand from his siblings, but needless to say, Luther's kept his distance. The house, for all its activity, still feels strangely foreign to him. The corridors and rooms unfamiliar, having been gone for the better part of four decades. Everything, from the moment he was discovered in the apocalypse to now had been for this moment, hadn't it? All the work, all the killing, all the bloodshed, to bring him here.
He stands in the foyer, hands tucked into his pockets, staring up at the grand stair case and the backlit windows overhead. It had been nothing but a cracked foundation and ash, his siblings but lawn ornaments against the backdrop of a broken world. There's cleanup to do still, bodies to make sure the police never find, messes to clean, buildings to burn. Too many wild, loose ends for his liking, especially when he doesn't have briefcase, doesn't have the means to wrap it all up in a bow and ship it off.
The house feels small, even though he must look even smaller against it. What does he do now. Every moment, rushing and running and desperately reaching for this and, what? He foolishly hadn't considered his options, hadn't drawn out what his life might be on the blueprint, only his family's.
Delores is tucked safely back in the consignment shop; Allison, Klaus, Diego and Vanya seem to work tirelessly to teach her control; Luther keeps his distance, though not without a watchful, concerned eye. Five joins, occasionally, sitting in a window to watch them work, to blink across the room if only to spare one of his siblings an errant ball or item Vanya tries to control. Baby steps, but he marvels at how natural it feels to sit and watch Vanya discover her talents surrounded by care. Faults, mistakes, lead to gentle encouragement. No punishment or cruel training waits around the bend, and for the first time in all of Five's strange, time-twisted life, he feels the family collectively exhale.
Reginald Hargreeves knew what they were capable of, knew one of the ways he might harness that power, but even the wisest men on Earth don't have all the answers. He didn't have access to this moment in the catalogue, where Extraordinary humans find a way to move forward in the most ordinary of ways.
But a week, nearly two, passes, and it sees Klaus and Allison finally going home, leaving Vanya stable and comfortable enough to slowly practice her abilities. Five finds her sometimes, spars with her in the Great Room, in the halls, and tries to quietly foster the wonder he catches behind her eyes. It fills the time. Luther and Diego? Well, who the hell knows what they're planning. The world is changed, and what that means for whatever future they weren't meant to have, he doesn't know. He'll need to find out. He has to. How he does that, however, is the next step.
Shaking his head, he moves away from the landing. How much time has passed since Vanya left and he saw her out, he doesn't know. He makes his way down the stairs, deep in thought, when he opens one front doors and narrowly misses hitting Diego, managing to blink his way down a few steps to avoid a collision.
"If you're looking for Vanya, she's gone."
Gone home, of course. Haven't all of them? Five's not sure anywhere will feel like home to him anymore. "Grace is in the library, Pogo's in the old man's office, and Luther's licking his wounds in the attic."
ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴏɴ, ɪᴍ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ;
A phone.
And when he answers the unknown number, irritated and groggy, all it takes is to hear Diego Hargreeves and injured and no emergency contact and your number for his feet to scramble, his heart to pound in his chest. It's the very first time he feels actual anger with himself that he doesn't drive, that he doesn't have a car, because calling an uber takes too damn long.
(So he calls in a favor to a man he shouldn't, calls in a favor for a car and something fast because dear god he needs to get to the hospital now because his brother needs him and please don't tell Allison whatever you do).
He makes a weary mental note to thank Tony Stark later. Somehow.
The driver (what was his name? Happy?) manages to get him all the way to the ER entrance and, with great surprise, someone waits there to take him through the hospital. It feels like his world's nothing but a twisted blur because his siblings aren't meant to get hurt, especially this one. First Allison, now Diego? And why? He should have been there to stop all of it.
He's brought to a hospital room and he's sure he'll pass out from lack of breathing, but he walks in, looks over his brother, sedated and pale on the hospital bed. The nurses rattle what they think's happened, the extent of the injuries, but it doesn't stick. He'll send a ghost for information later if he needs to, but he sits for what feels like hours at Diego's bedside in the ER room, waiting. The sedatives and painkillers will have to wear off sometime.
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That’s why, the last few nights, Diego had started listening to the police scanner, and had found a way to find a frequency to listen into the 9-1-1 calls that could point him in the right direction. Patch wouldn’t approve, and that voice in his head that sounded an awfully lot like her told him as much, but it didn’t stop him. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. It was his job, after all. He may not be part of the Umbrella Academy anymore, his siblings may not do what he does, but Diego can’t stop. He knows what he can do. He knows he can make a difference. He knows he can help, so why the hell would he stop?
It doesn’t occur to him to slow down, though. To process what happened just how he’d insist with his siblings, because he’s fine. He was fine. He just needed to get back into the swing of things. He needed to keep doing what he was made to do. He needed to do what Patch couldn’t do anymore, and it’s that last factor that ironically caused him to be more aggressive. More reckless. The grief and the anger that has been pent up within him, burning through his veins like lava, has been bursting at the seams despite the demeanor that he carries with his siblings. And, when he had caught a group of thieves trying to get away, he didn’t think twice about it before he started running after them. On his own. In a neighborhood he didn’t know, without even bothering to listen if any sort of backup was coming. He didn’t need them, after all he could handle this himself.
...until he hadn’t. He had been so busy trying to fight one of the men he caught up to (or, rather, trying to hurt him almost viciously), that he missed the way another one hit him over the head with enough force to make him stop. Diego fought back, of course, one after the other until everything went dark.
As he begins to wake up, though, he doesn't really remember much of the fight. Hell, even trying to think past that feels like a strain. His thoughts feel disjointed, his mind in a haze that he can't quite get out of. For a moment he half wonders if he's underwater, if he's being tested again, if Reginald is finally satisfied with his results this time. Maybe he'll let him sleep, he thinks. Maybe he'll let him take a break. Maybe they can go get donuts, and...
No, that's...not it, is it. He blinks his eyes open despite the effort that it actually takes to do so, and although it feels like it takes forever for his eyes to focus, it all slowly starts clicking together. The beeping of the monitors, the sterile smell of the hospital room. The IV (needles needles needles), but before he can think of pulling it out, he notices his brother. He looks so worried, he notices sluggishly, but it hasn't fully clicked that it's because of him. The pain from the broken ribs, the dislocated shoulder and the concussion is slowly becoming more apparent now that the painkillers are starting to wear off, but...well. This isn't that new for him, considering his line of work.
(Normally it would be Patch sitting nearby, or standing by the door, ready to chew him out. But she's not here, and his heart feels like it twists in his chest at the realization.)
"Shit, what..." He tries to take a breath, but can't quite hide the groan that slips out in the process, the way the pain feels like it knocks the air out of his lungs for a moment despite his best attempts. "...what are you doing here?"
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backbeat the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out;
And that's exactly what he's done, hopping from stranger to stranger, fingers dipping into wallets and pockets when possible, outstaying his welcome in their beds whenever the opportunity arose. Klaus Hargreeves is nothing more than an unfortunate opportunist at his core.
He makes acquaintances along the way while he bounces in and out of rehabs when he can't find a good spot to snuggle up, but today he feels like he's living like a king. Pills washed down with cheap swill and he's on his way, floating down the street with the euphoria of having an extra thirty bucks in his pocket from lunch after he sidled up to a very drunk, very pretty little thing the night before.
Klaus tips his head into the afternoon sun, humming at its warmth, ignoring the looks of those who pass by. He's a sight, all tight jeans and tighter shirt, eyeliner smudged a la Grace Kelly in a terrible car accident, a beat-up leather backpack purse slung over one shoulder. But he got sleep, he's got the hum and hiss of static in his ears, and there's a Denny's two blocks up calling his name.
He's singing to himself, headphones from his cheap walkman blasting the tune Sweet Caroline and he has no qualms about singing it to himself as he walks down the street. So much so that in one dramatic spin on the infamous ba ba ba of the chorus, he all but crashes into someone on the street, skidding on the pavement and falling back on his ass. "Whoops, sorry, Neil just gets my withers quivering, if you know what I mean."
He laughs at himself, but it chokes up in the back of his throat when he sees exactly who he's run into. That's a face he hasn't seen in, what? Months? Years? Definitely years.
"Diego?" Still in shock, he stays planted on the sidewalk, staring at his brother.
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Although, as much as he hates to sometimes even admit it to himself, the training that Reginald had put them through has been helping him in a lot of of the tests he has been taking. He's fast, he's strong, and he knows that he's a hell of an asset to the police force. His trainer may hate his attitude, but Diego knows what he's worth. He knows what he can do, he just needs to pass this little hurdle so that he can actually do something right. He can actually do some good, because he doesn't want to be mopping Al's floor for the rest of his life.
He's going over some notes for a test that he has to take later (those he hates, and he really wishes everything was more of a physical exam than an intellectual one), distracted by the note that Eudora had written on a corner of the page, when he bumps into someone and Diego himself stumbles back. He doesn't fall, his reflexes kicking in immediately, but all that almost goes out the window when he hears that voice. When he sees his brother staring back at him, and for a moment he has to remind himself to speak.
"You alright?" He offers his hand to help him up, taking in how his brother looks. His clothes, the make up. How fucking skinny he is, and Diego has to refrain from frowning even if his brow almost twitches from the effort. Diego has been living a pretty modest life, but between his training at the boxing gym, and now what he has been doing for the police academy, he looks fit, his muscles in his arms toned.
He's so distracted by Klaus, that it doesn't click yet that he's wearing a shirt from the police academy. That it's giving a glimpse of his current life; a life that no one else in his family has been privy to for years now, because Diego cut himself off from that world the second he saw an opportunity to do so.
Despite that, though, his words are sincere as he speaks again. "It's good to see you, Klaus."
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