Diego rolls his eyes when Klaus tell him not to fuss, although it all but disappears into something akin to guilt when Klaus points out how they underestimated him. He’s not wrong, obviously, and he keeps proving it. If the whole thing hadn’t happened at the bar, if they hadn’t gotten a chance to talk, would they be here? Talking instead of snipping at each other? There’s a bitter taste that settles in his mouth, but he just leans back against the chair when Klaus leaves, picking out a knife from within his boot so he can idly spin it in his hand as the room falls silent again.

“Don’t you dare pull this shit again,” he mutters in Allison’s direction. “I got poked for you once, but don’t think it’s going to happen again.”

It’s a lie, but it’s not like it matters. Allison remains unconscious, completely disconnected from the world, even when Grace stops by to check on her vitals, and when Pogo brings them some blankets. At one point Diego drapes one over Allison, because this room has always made him feel uneasy and it’s almost his way of trying to make sure she’s comfortable in whatever way he can help with.

By the time Klaus comes back, though, Diego is in the same position, still idly spinning his knife. As if he wasn’t the one that had covered their sister with a warmer blanket than the thin sheet Grace had used earlier; as if he hadn’t strategically placed a folded up cot on the wall closest to Klaus so he can try to convince him to sleep later.

At the sound of his brother’s footsteps, he turns in his direction and sits up straight to take from him the mug and the sandwich. “Thanks. Pogo dropped off a few things.” He motions towards the cot and the blankets. It’s not a lie, Pogo had dropped them off. Whether it had been his idea for them, though, he’ll never tell. “Nice sweater. Who’d you ‘borrow’ it from?”