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?"
no subject
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?"