For as over the top and aloof as Klaus appears, he's incredibly perceptive. He's always honed in on the subtleties of those around them, whether as a tool of exploitation or curiosity, but he catches the wince as Diego drinks from the mug. It's easy to forget that not everyone wants their coffee as dark and bitter as his own little heart.
He slides from the counter long enough to fish a bottle of vanilla creamer from the fridge, but quickly resumes his perch. He opens the bottle and tips some into his own drink before offering it out to Diego, brows raised.
"Not sure what we're trying to get back to, per se but you're right, it's definitely hard. And so weird being back in that house, though I really do have to give a nod to teenage me. He was an edgy little shit. Decorations were to die for."
He sighs into his mug, chuckling against the rim of it as he drinks deeply. The creamer helps, sweet and smooth on the way down. "Oh, shit, that's right. We didn't do the whole catching up thing. Well I live here, with Allison and her unfairly adorable family. I make sure our sister is fabulously styled and occasionally I teach all the rich, old Hollywood folk how to do yoga. Celebrities or big spenders, usually, and only private lessons. Keeps life very entertaining."
And helps him stack money into Claire's college fund, too, among other things. "I started taking classes early on to help with all the bullshit. Dead people, their dead friends, and their fancy cousin addiction. Allison wanted me to surf. Fuckin surf, can you imagine?" He snorts.
He may or may not pick up one of the completed grilled cheeses and take a bite, too, if only for something to do with his hands. And because maybe, just maybe, he's feeling a little bit better with company here, but he won't admit to that.
For a moment Diego figures that Klaus is going to busy himself with something else in the kitchen, but when he comes back with the creamer he pauses slightly in surprise. It's hard to tell, though, if the surprise is at the creamer itself or the fact that Klaus had caught on to the fact that he's not all that used to coffee, let alone black coffee.
But, since Klaus uses the creamer, it's easier for Diego to do the same. Not too much, just a splash...until he tastes it, and then he casually adds a little bit more before going back to the sandwich on the pan as if nothing happened.
He glances towards his brother again, though, as he continues talking and fills him in on what he has been doing. Teaching yoga, of all things, and shit. He wonders if Reginald would die of an aneurysm if he knew what one of his sons was doing, after raising them all to save the world.
"Surf?" Diego all but barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head. "Shit, well. No, that doesn't really sound like you." A smile settles on his lips, but he makes it a point to not watch him as he eats. And he makes sure to not look so satisfied at the fact that he's eating, even if internally he can't help the way the knot in his stomach relaxes at the sight.
"It's hard work, surfing," he whines and drinks from his mug again with the roll of his eyes. "I don't know why she thought I'd be suited for something like that."
Though he tried and in actuality, he hadn't been bad at it. But the idea of trying to teach out-of-state tourists how to balance or how to swim seemed far less than ideal to him. Yoga had happened by accident, really, spurred on by meeting a few fancy, pretty folk that led to something a little more.
His eyes raise to Diego's and he shrugs a shoulder, "It's not too bad. Definitely not what dear old dad had in mind for his dearest, greatest disappointment, after all. But there's something exciting about that, isn't there?" He snorts, smirking around another bite of grilled cheese as he peers up at the ceiling, thoughtful. Squandering his potential, his father had said in the afterlife. Wasting it on frivolity.
"It keeps me honest." He looks Diego over once then sighs, dropping his hands back to his lap. "I'm glad you're here. Really. I'm terribly impressed with your element of surprise, because I have to admit, I can usually hear you coming from a mile away." He grins and takes another bite, gesturing at Diego with the half-eaten sandwich. "Subtlety isn't usually your thing."
There’s a sort of darkness that crosses his features as Reginald gets brought up in actual conversation, his whole body almost going to the defense. It’s an unconscious reaction by now, something that has been happening since he was a teenager. The mere idea of their father causes whatever softened edges to harden; the personality of that stuttering boy that existed back then destroyed by the new ways he had come up with to become better. Tougher, as if so that Reginald won’t destroy him, too.
“Dad’s expectations can rot in Hell right along with him.” It’s not said too loud, but the anger he has reserved for Reginald seeps into his words nonetheless. Especially after Klaus parrots what their father had called him. He may not have heard him tell that story, but the idea of Reginald calling any of them that after being a shitty father to all of them, it makes his blood boil.
He anchors himself in the here and now, though, and whatever other insult is burning in his tongue gets shoved back as he takes another sip of his coffee. Especially when Klaus tells him he’s glad to have him here, which brings a half smirk to his face.
“Yeah, well. It is when I need it to be.” And he did, this time, for various reasons. Considering the deep shit they are all still sorting through, it felt necessary. But, considering Klaus is one of the ones he’s intending to help while he’s out in California, he doesn’t elaborate. He just shrugs slightly, as if it’s not a big deal. “Besides. You went on so much about Claire, that I figured why not now before I get busy again with work.”
The most ironic thing of all is that their father somehow ended up in Heaven. Or at least, Klaus certainly thought it was heaven. It didn't look dismal or horrific, and the man was able to tuck in and give him a shave as well as a metaphorical beating, so why not? Heaven enough, especially with God frowning at him through the eyes of a salty little girl.
He opts to omit that part, though, and instead lets out a little laugh. "Oh, right, Mr. Bull in a China shop, but by all means, whatever helps you sleep at night." Though subtlety isn't exactly what he'd use to describe Diego, the man's heart is as big as any, and he has a unique ability for pressing at just the right moment. And even though his approach is often more aggressive than others, it's that direct, pointed sort of action that can be so refreshing.
He'd needed it, in the bar, in the car ride home. Needed someone to shake him back into reality but also just listen, even if the details were all so confusing.
"Glad you could squeeze us into your schedule then. Could you squeeze another sandwich in there, too, while you're at it?" Has he finished the one he stole? Yes, and strangely he finds himself still hungry. It's the most he's eaten in days, really, and while he feels like another one could be verging on too much, he's more desperate for the interaction than he is the food.
With Allison being basically silenced, both by her injury and the turmoil of everything, with Patrick worrying over them both while still working, Klaus spends a great deal of time either tending to Allison's bedside or with Claire, leaving him to sit up, alone, at night with his thoughts, with his memories, with his fears.
A tiny part of him wants to grab Diego by the arm and beg him to stay a little longer, to let Allison sleep because she needs it, but also because he needs this. It's childish, something the vulnerable, wide eyed boy from all those years ago might have done when things got out of control in training. He doesn't have to take care of Diego in this moment, even though he should; they're all grieving right now. The relief that he can just exist for a little while, for a slice of a moment is enough to make him weep with relief. But Klaus doesn't. Instead, he smiles easily, crosses his legs at the knee and leans back on one hand on the counter, foot bobbing to the faint commercial music playing from the living room TV.
"If you're going to stop in, I might as well put you to work, right?" He chuckles, reaching to dip a finger in the soup he'd been warming. It's cooking, but slowly, and it's not quite warmed through for serving yet. "A few more minutes and you can waltz your way to Allison. Surprise the hell out of her and all."
“Ah, good timing,” he teases with a smirk, as if the sandwich he was putting on a plate wasn’t going to be shoved at Klaus in a few minutes. Thankfully his brother beats him to the punch, but whatever relief he could be feeling about the fact that Klaus is eating gets tucked away as he offers him the plate with the recently made sandwich.
Klaus may not be asking him to stay, but Diego isn’t moving with any sort of urgency. If anything, he looks almost too relaxed as he butters more bread and preps the cheese. As if this is normal, as if he casually shows up to make lunch out of nowhere. All of this is out of his norm, though. Not just making someone that isn’t Patch food, but it’s rare for the force that is normally Diego Hargreeves to be almost still, but like with his subtlety, he knows when to rein things back in. Like right now, he is where he wants to be. With his brother. Yes, Allison had been his excuse to fly out, and even Claire to some degree. It’s easier to say it, after all, and it’s easier than admitting to his brother the truth. Because he doubts he’d take it well if he told him how he still remembers that look of his at the bar. How broken he sounded. How it had wedged something between his ribs, making it uncomfortable for him to even breathe until he makes sure he’s okay. Klaus hadn’t gotten a chance to really process what happened in Vietnam before they found Allison at the brink of death in that cabin, before Vanya almost destroyed the world, before they put her back together, before Allison crumbled.
And, as much as Diego’s demeanor has hardened, as much as he keeps that stuttering boy he used to be buried as deep as he can, in a lot of ways some things never disappeared. Like the fierce loyalty to his family, the love he has for his siblings. The way he has always wanted to protect them despite his outward aggressiveness. The way Klaus has always felt like the younger brother that he needs to guard, despite the fact that they’re all the same age.
That’s why, for now, he just shrugs. “Lucky for her, now I’m hungry, so she can...you know. Do whatever the hell she’s doing before I pop in and say hi.” Oh and say hi he will. Allison definitely won’t know what hit her before she gets more or less dragged out of bed. “God, that fucking flight was miserable. No food, just these little peanut bags that barely had anything. So I guess you’re stuck with me while we both eat something.”
"You'd have sooner walked to California, wouldn't you? A real Forest Gump of the Umbrella Academy. Though if you dare grow a beard like his or go for that casually homeless, deadbeat look, I will murder you myself."
Klaus takes the plate and plucks up the sandwich immediately, smiling a little at how perfectly browned it is. It's warm, too, and is a nice contrast to the bite of the bitter coffee. Funny, how such a simple thing can make him feel a little bit more human.
"Don't let me rob you of your food, though. I can be a bottomless pit when I want to, don't let this dashing figure deceive." He takes another bite and peers around the kitchen, at the house he's called home for nearly a decade. The toys on the floor, the coats on the pretty hooks at the door, the pile of shoes Klaus has inevitably left behind a couch or under a table, because even he can't keep track of them.
Funny, how easily a place can become a home.
"I am definitely not the family cook here, though. Allison's pretty good but Patrick is just," he presses his fingers to his lips and gives a silly little chef's kiss. "I mean, he's easy on the eyes. I keep telling Allison I will elope with him one day, be the real family homewrecker. My dreams haven't come true yet." He laughs, taking another bite. He's quiet for the first time in their meeting, though, staring off thoughtfully toward the bedroom door.
For a second, in the lull of conversation, his mind goes somewhere far off, though he's not sure how or why. Perhaps it's the sizzle of the pan, the last bubble of the coffee machine, the sound of a cartoon explosion from the TV set. His chest fills with pressure, his ears with nothing but white noise, his mouth runs dry. He's there with Dave in the dirt, sitting among soldiers as shells explode, as bodies fall lifeless and cold around him.
He blinks as butter pops on the pan and he comes up, bewildered, ears finally opening the gate for whatever it was Diego was saying. He laughs nervously, though, and tucks hair behind his ear. He should finish the new sandwich, but his appetite has suddenly left him, his heart aching and racing all at once.
"Got caught up in the fantasy, you know, silly me." A small huff and he looks to the sandwich, picking at the crust. "Hopefully you can get through to her, though. To Allison, I mean. After you eat."
Diego chuckles, nodding as he grills a new sandwich. “Yeah, would’ve been a lot more tolerable than the flight. But would have taken longer, so...guess that’s what I get for not wanting to spend all week driving.”
Not to mention the fact that he’d be screwed if he would have tried, considering his car isn’t exactly up for the drive. He loves the damn thing, but he’s also realistic - it’s old and beat up, there is absolutely no way it would have been able to handle a cross country trip.
“And don’t worry about it, there’s plenty where it’s coming from so just eat.” He says it casually, like it’s not a command, although Diego is determined to get him to get more food in his stomach. “Besides, I’m still working on my coffee. The creamer isn’t half bad.”
He listens as his brother talks, careful to not let the bread get too brown, but when he grows quiet he glances over in his direction. He’s too alert and hypersensitive to his brother’s needs (to his siblings’s needs in general, really, considering he’s on protective mode), and while Diego makes sure he’s careful to not distract himself from the sandwich he’s grilling since he doubts that Allison will appreciate it if he burnt down her kitchen within an hour of arriving, he still keeps a careful eye on Klaus.
But then Klaus laughs, and that nervous energy that comes with the laugh feels as if it shakes something within him. It makes his stomach twist, his mouth going dry.
It makes him reach over for him, a hand wrapping around his wrist. The grip is firm, but still gentle enough to not hurt him. And so that, if Klaus pulls away, he can. It’s something Grace would do for him whenever he’d get too stuck in something, his mouth unable to form the words that he wanted to say as his heart thundered within his chest. It’s not what Klaus is experiencing, he knows he doesn’t know shit about what he’s going through. But Grace would give him something to ground him, to pull him back to reality before the anxiety unraveled him too much, and that sentiment is still there.
“We’ll get it figured out,” he says quietly, but reassuringly. He doesn’t necessarily mean Allison, although that’s his goal, too. It’s intended to be an open statement, one that won’t spook Klaus away, but that he wants him to remember. He hopes he knows he’s there for him, too. “I promise.”
It happens more often now, the going away, the slow fall into something distant and terrifying and horrific. He feels it at night most of all, when he wakes from dreams so vivid and so real that he's sure the explosion in his mind will leave him dead on the side of the mountain in the A Shau valley. But the bedroom always reappears, the walls stop caving in, and he's left to gaze blankly at the ceiling as the hours creep by.
The hand on his arm startles him, his eyes leaving the sandwich in his lap to observe the scarred, strong fingers curled around his wrist. Klaus can't explain why he feels stripped bare, why he feels like his chest has cracked open, vulnerable and raw, but something about the hand anchors him to the moment. He doesn't pull away, but raises a free hand to pat Diego's.
"Of course we will," he says with a little more energy, a little more forced life that he's dragging up from the nearly empty reserves. Allison has to get better and they have to help her. And whether Diego means to speak to him, about the ghosts that linger behind his eyes, Klaus doesn't know. They've spoken once, in the shady bar back home, in the drive, in the infirmary. But what more is there to say?
"We always figure something out. That's what we Hargreeves do, after all. Fuck it all put and put it back together again," he snorts and gives Diego's hand a squeeze before he slides from his place on the counter, setting the picked at sandwich aside.
They could linger in the discomfort, pay homage to the elephant that stands between them in the kitchen, but that's not what Klaus does. Instead he busies himself with a deep bowl, a spoon, a plate, a serving tray. He even drags down an extra mug because, throat injury or not, he knows how his sister can be upon waking, if she's slept at all.
"We have water, you know. And some fancy, natural juices if you feel so inclined. You could have said no to the coffee." A small, tired, knowing smile is thrown over his shoulder before waltzes away again to the fridge for a pitcher of water, for himself.
Diego doesn't stop him from pulling away, but he watches him, silent. Letting him move about as if nothing has happened, as if they're still discussing the stupid plans that Allison had originally thought for Klaus, as if they're talking about Claire's frilly outfits and the threat of dress-up. As if either of them are even hungry anymore for the food they're making.
That's also what all Hargreeves do, isn't it? Their house is littered with silent pain, restrained emotions, weaknesses squashed down before they could even fully master them. It's part of the reason why they're all so fucked up, why everything always goes sideways every. damn. time.
And for a moment, Diego even plays along. He lets Klaus get out what he needs to from the cabinets and drawers, while he himself finishes making another sandwich. He even shakes his head at the offer of juice, before he butters another slice of bread. At the rate he's going, and the fact that neither of them will probably eat anymore, Claire and Allison will have grilled cheese sandwiches for the rest of the day.
"You don't have to do that, you know." It's a belated comment, and he knows it, but he had been trying to almost calibrate his voice in a way that it wouldn't come out like an accusation. He doesn't turn to Klaus, as if somehow that will make it easier to listen to what he's about to say. "This that you're doing, being all lively and shit. Not with me. Not if you're not feeling it." He glances towards him then; there's not a glare, just that same understanding that had been in his eyes that day in the car. That night in the infirmary. "You want to do it for Allison, for Claire? That's fine. But don't burn energy on it for me. And, honestly? Allison would probably tell you the same thing if she could."
It's so very easy for Klaus to slip into that playful nonchalance, to tuck all the gut-twisting fear and worry away. Better for his family to deal with their own shit than to worry about his own, because Klaus can't even put a name to it. He can't explain to them the sleepless nights, the sound of bombs ringing in his hears, the dead woman who stares at him with bleeding eyes while he sleeps, the smell of cigarette smoke in a Vietnamese bar...
He's so lost in setting out the tray, in creating a sense of normalcy for his sister that Diego's comment catches him off guard. "Hm?" He raises his head, blinking curiously at his brother. What do you mean is poised on his lips but Diego continues and he knows better than to rebut right now. He leans a hip into the counter, folds his arms over his chest, and listens.
"She probably would, you're right," he laughs a little at the thought. He can see the look on her face - he's seen it before, years ago. But he'd been happy recently, and his liveliness, his excitement, his grand gestures of hyperbole had all be genuine then. Something about going home for those two weeks has all but taken the air out of his chest.
"Well I'd be very boring if I didn't," he huffs, shrugging one shoulder. It's not that he doesn't take the man seriously - he does - but he's never been very good at sharing his feelings, at stepping away from the mask he's artfully crafted for himself. Diego had seen it, the walls crumbling, as he stood in the vet bar, as he sat in the car with him, but that doesn't make it easier. He looks aside, back to the tray, nervously arranging the bowl, the spoon, the glass. He's a man always in motion, especially now.
"Let's get Allison better first, yeah? I'm not deflecting or whatever bullshit, alright? I just... we gotta get her back on her feet first. This shit? I've dealt with this shit my whole life, what's a week more, you know?" He grins, all teeth and a trilling sort of laugh. "What's beauty without a little bit of despair, after all."
Diego removes another sandwich from the pan and sets it on the plate where he’s essentially stacking sandwiches, but his attention is really on Klaus and on what he’s saying. It’s at least good that his brother doesn’t just dismisses what he says, that he actually seems to listen, so at least that’s good.
Diego doesn’t relent, though, and when he initially huffs and shrugs his response, his expression remains the same. As if to tell him he can’t bullshit him; he can try to do his whole ‘normal’ act, but he had seen too much at that bar to really believe him. As if to tell him that he knows he’s fucking lying, because Diego had also lost someone he loved, and while he’ll never willingly show how much it hurts, he knows damn well that two weeks is nothing to actually ‘heal’ from the loss and grief left behind.
But, fair enough. He wants Allison back on her feet? He can help with that.
“How about we all three have lunch together, then? I can go say hi and convince her to join us.” ‘Convince’ sounds so normal, especially how he says it, but he has a feeling Klaus might disapprove of his methods if he knew what he has in mind. It’ll have results, though - Diego at least knows Number Three well enough to know what buttons to push.
Klaus can't help the masquerade he puts on. It's like a second skin, something he slips into and forgets he's living there, even now, when Diego seems to try and pull him from it. But it's a safer place to exist, where the sorrow and guilt and hurt and confusion don't exist.
He reaches for the plate of sandwiches and sets it delicately on the tray. The soup comes next as he reaches around his brother for the pot, carefully pouring the steaming liquid into an empty, waiting bowl.
"Taking the food to her will yield better results," he chirps, giving the tray a tiny push toward his brother for emphasis, a little waggle of his eyebrows, a curve of his lips. "She'll eat in there. No convincing or coercion necessary. Scout's honor."
He's tired, and it hits him suddenly. Maybe it's because he's existed in this halfway state for weeks now, a frenetic balance between brother and uncle and brother-in-law, but never quite landing on Klaus. But he's been in worse states. He's been in worse places. He's not on drugs or drinking and even though his mind feels the farthest from clear, he has some modicum of control, and that's what matters here, isn't it?
"But by all means. So long as you don't actually wrestle her out of bed I think we'll be in good shape. She'd kick your ass in her sleep." He huffs a bit and reaches for the tray. He just has to get Allison back together again. The rest can wait, can't it? If they can get Allison back, then Claire might be happier, and with Claire happier, Patrick might look less worried, might sleep more, and things will get easier, right? Klaus doesn't much care what happens to himself, really, if he can keep the three of them safe, happy.
"I'm glad you're here," and the words tumble out of their own free will, relief so thick and palpable in his voice. He's surprised himself, really, and it shows in his face as he tries to backpedal. "I was running out of ideas." A swallows and huffs a little as he picks up the tray. "But brute force oughta do the trick, and who better than Diego Hargreeves?"
Diego smiles, all teeth and not necessarily in a humorous way. "You leave the method to me. If she wants to kick my ass, she can try. Isn't that what we're going for here?"
As far as he's concerned, if he can irritate Allison enough to get her to want to kick his ass, that's a good sign. Allison Hargreeves is not the type to be locked in her room, to be sleeping in the middle of the day. Diego had seen her starting to crack on the days before leaving New York to come back to California, how that facade she had been putting up for Vanya and the rest of the group was starting to wear thin as the pain and everything else was catching up to her, but he'll be damned if he'll let her throw herself into whatever pit of despair she's in and drag Klaus down with her.
Especially when he hears the way that Klaus tells him he's glad he's here, and whatever smartass remark he could think of saying evaporates from his mouth. Instead, he just nods and reaches for the tray to take it from him.
"What can I say, only the family bulldog can handle shit like this." She won't like it, he knows that already, but whatever. Diego had grown to be the definition of a bull in a china shop, and he'll use that particular skill to good use.
"But fine, I'll take it to her and get her to eat. Go lay down or something while the kid naps, we'll join you guys after Allison eats." He says it with certainty, as if there is no alternative to what his plan. "Maybe we can go get ice cream or something."
Klaus can't pinpoint whether he's relieved that Diego is taking up the helm here or if he's too afraid to let this moment go. But the tray leaves his hands and Diego's already talking about later plans and Klaus puts on a little smile. "Mm, you'll win your way to Claire's heart so fast with a proposition like that."
He's on the move again, his body a ball of uncertain energy even when there's nowhere to pull that energy from. Stop squirming, you're making me nervous, Dave would have said, had said once upon a time. Everything reminds him of the pretty man on the battlefield with the sweet eyes and sweeter smile, and the hole in Klaus's heart grows wider each time.
"If you get into a fight, at least try and save the dishes. I like those ones." He shrugs a shoulder and gives a little wiggle of his fingers to his brother. "Just let yourself in, don't bother knocking."
He pads away from the kitchen, coffee and half a sandwich left behind on the counter. He pauses in the hallway one time to glance back, both exhausted and hopeful, before he slips into his room. He won't sleep; he can't. He can't remember the last time he rested. So he might well put himself to bed, wrap himself up in blankets, but he always comes to, sweaty and screaming, no matter the beginning.
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He slides from the counter long enough to fish a bottle of vanilla creamer from the fridge, but quickly resumes his perch. He opens the bottle and tips some into his own drink before offering it out to Diego, brows raised.
"Not sure what we're trying to get back to, per se but you're right, it's definitely hard. And so weird being back in that house, though I really do have to give a nod to teenage me. He was an edgy little shit. Decorations were to die for."
He sighs into his mug, chuckling against the rim of it as he drinks deeply. The creamer helps, sweet and smooth on the way down. "Oh, shit, that's right. We didn't do the whole catching up thing. Well I live here, with Allison and her unfairly adorable family. I make sure our sister is fabulously styled and occasionally I teach all the rich, old Hollywood folk how to do yoga. Celebrities or big spenders, usually, and only private lessons. Keeps life very entertaining."
And helps him stack money into Claire's college fund, too, among other things. "I started taking classes early on to help with all the bullshit. Dead people, their dead friends, and their fancy cousin addiction. Allison wanted me to surf. Fuckin surf, can you imagine?" He snorts.
He may or may not pick up one of the completed grilled cheeses and take a bite, too, if only for something to do with his hands. And because maybe, just maybe, he's feeling a little bit better with company here, but he won't admit to that.
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But, since Klaus uses the creamer, it's easier for Diego to do the same. Not too much, just a splash...until he tastes it, and then he casually adds a little bit more before going back to the sandwich on the pan as if nothing happened.
He glances towards his brother again, though, as he continues talking and fills him in on what he has been doing. Teaching yoga, of all things, and shit. He wonders if Reginald would die of an aneurysm if he knew what one of his sons was doing, after raising them all to save the world.
"Surf?" Diego all but barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head. "Shit, well. No, that doesn't really sound like you." A smile settles on his lips, but he makes it a point to not watch him as he eats. And he makes sure to not look so satisfied at the fact that he's eating, even if internally he can't help the way the knot in his stomach relaxes at the sight.
"Sounds like you've got it pretty good out here."
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Though he tried and in actuality, he hadn't been bad at it. But the idea of trying to teach out-of-state tourists how to balance or how to swim seemed far less than ideal to him. Yoga had happened by accident, really, spurred on by meeting a few fancy, pretty folk that led to something a little more.
His eyes raise to Diego's and he shrugs a shoulder, "It's not too bad. Definitely not what dear old dad had in mind for his dearest, greatest disappointment, after all. But there's something exciting about that, isn't there?" He snorts, smirking around another bite of grilled cheese as he peers up at the ceiling, thoughtful. Squandering his potential, his father had said in the afterlife. Wasting it on frivolity.
"It keeps me honest." He looks Diego over once then sighs, dropping his hands back to his lap. "I'm glad you're here. Really. I'm terribly impressed with your element of surprise, because I have to admit, I can usually hear you coming from a mile away." He grins and takes another bite, gesturing at Diego with the half-eaten sandwich. "Subtlety isn't usually your thing."
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“Dad’s expectations can rot in Hell right along with him.” It’s not said too loud, but the anger he has reserved for Reginald seeps into his words nonetheless. Especially after Klaus parrots what their father had called him. He may not have heard him tell that story, but the idea of Reginald calling any of them that after being a shitty father to all of them, it makes his blood boil.
He anchors himself in the here and now, though, and whatever other insult is burning in his tongue gets shoved back as he takes another sip of his coffee. Especially when Klaus tells him he’s glad to have him here, which brings a half smirk to his face.
“Yeah, well. It is when I need it to be.” And he did, this time, for various reasons. Considering the deep shit they are all still sorting through, it felt necessary. But, considering Klaus is one of the ones he’s intending to help while he’s out in California, he doesn’t elaborate. He just shrugs slightly, as if it’s not a big deal. “Besides. You went on so much about Claire, that I figured why not now before I get busy again with work.”
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He opts to omit that part, though, and instead lets out a little laugh. "Oh, right, Mr. Bull in a China shop, but by all means, whatever helps you sleep at night." Though subtlety isn't exactly what he'd use to describe Diego, the man's heart is as big as any, and he has a unique ability for pressing at just the right moment. And even though his approach is often more aggressive than others, it's that direct, pointed sort of action that can be so refreshing.
He'd needed it, in the bar, in the car ride home. Needed someone to shake him back into reality but also just listen, even if the details were all so confusing.
"Glad you could squeeze us into your schedule then. Could you squeeze another sandwich in there, too, while you're at it?" Has he finished the one he stole? Yes, and strangely he finds himself still hungry. It's the most he's eaten in days, really, and while he feels like another one could be verging on too much, he's more desperate for the interaction than he is the food.
With Allison being basically silenced, both by her injury and the turmoil of everything, with Patrick worrying over them both while still working, Klaus spends a great deal of time either tending to Allison's bedside or with Claire, leaving him to sit up, alone, at night with his thoughts, with his memories, with his fears.
A tiny part of him wants to grab Diego by the arm and beg him to stay a little longer, to let Allison sleep because she needs it, but also because he needs this. It's childish, something the vulnerable, wide eyed boy from all those years ago might have done when things got out of control in training. He doesn't have to take care of Diego in this moment, even though he should; they're all grieving right now. The relief that he can just exist for a little while, for a slice of a moment is enough to make him weep with relief. But Klaus doesn't. Instead, he smiles easily, crosses his legs at the knee and leans back on one hand on the counter, foot bobbing to the faint commercial music playing from the living room TV.
"If you're going to stop in, I might as well put you to work, right?" He chuckles, reaching to dip a finger in the soup he'd been warming. It's cooking, but slowly, and it's not quite warmed through for serving yet. "A few more minutes and you can waltz your way to Allison. Surprise the hell out of her and all."
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Klaus may not be asking him to stay, but Diego isn’t moving with any sort of urgency. If anything, he looks almost too relaxed as he butters more bread and preps the cheese. As if this is normal, as if he casually shows up to make lunch out of nowhere. All of this is out of his norm, though. Not just making someone that isn’t Patch food, but it’s rare for the force that is normally Diego Hargreeves to be almost still, but like with his subtlety, he knows when to rein things back in. Like right now, he is where he wants to be. With his brother. Yes, Allison had been his excuse to fly out, and even Claire to some degree. It’s easier to say it, after all, and it’s easier than admitting to his brother the truth. Because he doubts he’d take it well if he told him how he still remembers that look of his at the bar. How broken he sounded. How it had wedged something between his ribs, making it uncomfortable for him to even breathe until he makes sure he’s okay. Klaus hadn’t gotten a chance to really process what happened in Vietnam before they found Allison at the brink of death in that cabin, before Vanya almost destroyed the world, before they put her back together, before Allison crumbled.
And, as much as Diego’s demeanor has hardened, as much as he keeps that stuttering boy he used to be buried as deep as he can, in a lot of ways some things never disappeared. Like the fierce loyalty to his family, the love he has for his siblings. The way he has always wanted to protect them despite his outward aggressiveness. The way Klaus has always felt like the younger brother that he needs to guard, despite the fact that they’re all the same age.
That’s why, for now, he just shrugs. “Lucky for her, now I’m hungry, so she can...you know. Do whatever the hell she’s doing before I pop in and say hi.” Oh and say hi he will. Allison definitely won’t know what hit her before she gets more or less dragged out of bed. “God, that fucking flight was miserable. No food, just these little peanut bags that barely had anything. So I guess you’re stuck with me while we both eat something.”
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Klaus takes the plate and plucks up the sandwich immediately, smiling a little at how perfectly browned it is. It's warm, too, and is a nice contrast to the bite of the bitter coffee. Funny, how such a simple thing can make him feel a little bit more human.
"Don't let me rob you of your food, though. I can be a bottomless pit when I want to, don't let this dashing figure deceive." He takes another bite and peers around the kitchen, at the house he's called home for nearly a decade. The toys on the floor, the coats on the pretty hooks at the door, the pile of shoes Klaus has inevitably left behind a couch or under a table, because even he can't keep track of them.
Funny, how easily a place can become a home.
"I am definitely not the family cook here, though. Allison's pretty good but Patrick is just," he presses his fingers to his lips and gives a silly little chef's kiss. "I mean, he's easy on the eyes. I keep telling Allison I will elope with him one day, be the real family homewrecker. My dreams haven't come true yet." He laughs, taking another bite. He's quiet for the first time in their meeting, though, staring off thoughtfully toward the bedroom door.
For a second, in the lull of conversation, his mind goes somewhere far off, though he's not sure how or why. Perhaps it's the sizzle of the pan, the last bubble of the coffee machine, the sound of a cartoon explosion from the TV set. His chest fills with pressure, his ears with nothing but white noise, his mouth runs dry. He's there with Dave in the dirt, sitting among soldiers as shells explode, as bodies fall lifeless and cold around him.
He blinks as butter pops on the pan and he comes up, bewildered, ears finally opening the gate for whatever it was Diego was saying. He laughs nervously, though, and tucks hair behind his ear. He should finish the new sandwich, but his appetite has suddenly left him, his heart aching and racing all at once.
"Got caught up in the fantasy, you know, silly me." A small huff and he looks to the sandwich, picking at the crust. "Hopefully you can get through to her, though. To Allison, I mean. After you eat."
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Not to mention the fact that he’d be screwed if he would have tried, considering his car isn’t exactly up for the drive. He loves the damn thing, but he’s also realistic - it’s old and beat up, there is absolutely no way it would have been able to handle a cross country trip.
“And don’t worry about it, there’s plenty where it’s coming from so just eat.” He says it casually, like it’s not a command, although Diego is determined to get him to get more food in his stomach. “Besides, I’m still working on my coffee. The creamer isn’t half bad.”
He listens as his brother talks, careful to not let the bread get too brown, but when he grows quiet he glances over in his direction. He’s too alert and hypersensitive to his brother’s needs (to his siblings’s needs in general, really, considering he’s on protective mode), and while Diego makes sure he’s careful to not distract himself from the sandwich he’s grilling since he doubts that Allison will appreciate it if he burnt down her kitchen within an hour of arriving, he still keeps a careful eye on Klaus.
But then Klaus laughs, and that nervous energy that comes with the laugh feels as if it shakes something within him. It makes his stomach twist, his mouth going dry.
It makes him reach over for him, a hand wrapping around his wrist. The grip is firm, but still gentle enough to not hurt him. And so that, if Klaus pulls away, he can. It’s something Grace would do for him whenever he’d get too stuck in something, his mouth unable to form the words that he wanted to say as his heart thundered within his chest. It’s not what Klaus is experiencing, he knows he doesn’t know shit about what he’s going through. But Grace would give him something to ground him, to pull him back to reality before the anxiety unraveled him too much, and that sentiment is still there.
“We’ll get it figured out,” he says quietly, but reassuringly. He doesn’t necessarily mean Allison, although that’s his goal, too. It’s intended to be an open statement, one that won’t spook Klaus away, but that he wants him to remember. He hopes he knows he’s there for him, too. “I promise.”
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The hand on his arm startles him, his eyes leaving the sandwich in his lap to observe the scarred, strong fingers curled around his wrist. Klaus can't explain why he feels stripped bare, why he feels like his chest has cracked open, vulnerable and raw, but something about the hand anchors him to the moment. He doesn't pull away, but raises a free hand to pat Diego's.
"Of course we will," he says with a little more energy, a little more forced life that he's dragging up from the nearly empty reserves. Allison has to get better and they have to help her. And whether Diego means to speak to him, about the ghosts that linger behind his eyes, Klaus doesn't know. They've spoken once, in the shady bar back home, in the drive, in the infirmary. But what more is there to say?
"We always figure something out. That's what we Hargreeves do, after all. Fuck it all put and put it back together again," he snorts and gives Diego's hand a squeeze before he slides from his place on the counter, setting the picked at sandwich aside.
They could linger in the discomfort, pay homage to the elephant that stands between them in the kitchen, but that's not what Klaus does. Instead he busies himself with a deep bowl, a spoon, a plate, a serving tray. He even drags down an extra mug because, throat injury or not, he knows how his sister can be upon waking, if she's slept at all.
"We have water, you know. And some fancy, natural juices if you feel so inclined. You could have said no to the coffee." A small, tired, knowing smile is thrown over his shoulder before waltzes away again to the fridge for a pitcher of water, for himself.
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That's also what all Hargreeves do, isn't it? Their house is littered with silent pain, restrained emotions, weaknesses squashed down before they could even fully master them. It's part of the reason why they're all so fucked up, why everything always goes sideways every. damn. time.
And for a moment, Diego even plays along. He lets Klaus get out what he needs to from the cabinets and drawers, while he himself finishes making another sandwich. He even shakes his head at the offer of juice, before he butters another slice of bread. At the rate he's going, and the fact that neither of them will probably eat anymore, Claire and Allison will have grilled cheese sandwiches for the rest of the day.
"You don't have to do that, you know." It's a belated comment, and he knows it, but he had been trying to almost calibrate his voice in a way that it wouldn't come out like an accusation. He doesn't turn to Klaus, as if somehow that will make it easier to listen to what he's about to say. "This that you're doing, being all lively and shit. Not with me. Not if you're not feeling it." He glances towards him then; there's not a glare, just that same understanding that had been in his eyes that day in the car. That night in the infirmary. "You want to do it for Allison, for Claire? That's fine. But don't burn energy on it for me. And, honestly? Allison would probably tell you the same thing if she could."
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He's so lost in setting out the tray, in creating a sense of normalcy for his sister that Diego's comment catches him off guard. "Hm?" He raises his head, blinking curiously at his brother. What do you mean is poised on his lips but Diego continues and he knows better than to rebut right now. He leans a hip into the counter, folds his arms over his chest, and listens.
"She probably would, you're right," he laughs a little at the thought. He can see the look on her face - he's seen it before, years ago. But he'd been happy recently, and his liveliness, his excitement, his grand gestures of hyperbole had all be genuine then. Something about going home for those two weeks has all but taken the air out of his chest.
"Well I'd be very boring if I didn't," he huffs, shrugging one shoulder. It's not that he doesn't take the man seriously - he does - but he's never been very good at sharing his feelings, at stepping away from the mask he's artfully crafted for himself. Diego had seen it, the walls crumbling, as he stood in the vet bar, as he sat in the car with him, but that doesn't make it easier. He looks aside, back to the tray, nervously arranging the bowl, the spoon, the glass. He's a man always in motion, especially now.
"Let's get Allison better first, yeah? I'm not deflecting or whatever bullshit, alright? I just... we gotta get her back on her feet first. This shit? I've dealt with this shit my whole life, what's a week more, you know?" He grins, all teeth and a trilling sort of laugh. "What's beauty without a little bit of despair, after all."
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Diego doesn’t relent, though, and when he initially huffs and shrugs his response, his expression remains the same. As if to tell him he can’t bullshit him; he can try to do his whole ‘normal’ act, but he had seen too much at that bar to really believe him. As if to tell him that he knows he’s fucking lying, because Diego had also lost someone he loved, and while he’ll never willingly show how much it hurts, he knows damn well that two weeks is nothing to actually ‘heal’ from the loss and grief left behind.
But, fair enough. He wants Allison back on her feet? He can help with that.
“How about we all three have lunch together, then? I can go say hi and convince her to join us.” ‘Convince’ sounds so normal, especially how he says it, but he has a feeling Klaus might disapprove of his methods if he knew what he has in mind. It’ll have results, though - Diego at least knows Number Three well enough to know what buttons to push.
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He reaches for the plate of sandwiches and sets it delicately on the tray. The soup comes next as he reaches around his brother for the pot, carefully pouring the steaming liquid into an empty, waiting bowl.
"Taking the food to her will yield better results," he chirps, giving the tray a tiny push toward his brother for emphasis, a little waggle of his eyebrows, a curve of his lips. "She'll eat in there. No convincing or coercion necessary. Scout's honor."
He's tired, and it hits him suddenly. Maybe it's because he's existed in this halfway state for weeks now, a frenetic balance between brother and uncle and brother-in-law, but never quite landing on Klaus. But he's been in worse states. He's been in worse places. He's not on drugs or drinking and even though his mind feels the farthest from clear, he has some modicum of control, and that's what matters here, isn't it?
"But by all means. So long as you don't actually wrestle her out of bed I think we'll be in good shape. She'd kick your ass in her sleep." He huffs a bit and reaches for the tray. He just has to get Allison back together again. The rest can wait, can't it? If they can get Allison back, then Claire might be happier, and with Claire happier, Patrick might look less worried, might sleep more, and things will get easier, right? Klaus doesn't much care what happens to himself, really, if he can keep the three of them safe, happy.
"I'm glad you're here," and the words tumble out of their own free will, relief so thick and palpable in his voice. He's surprised himself, really, and it shows in his face as he tries to backpedal. "I was running out of ideas." A swallows and huffs a little as he picks up the tray. "But brute force oughta do the trick, and who better than Diego Hargreeves?"
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As far as he's concerned, if he can irritate Allison enough to get her to want to kick his ass, that's a good sign. Allison Hargreeves is not the type to be locked in her room, to be sleeping in the middle of the day. Diego had seen her starting to crack on the days before leaving New York to come back to California, how that facade she had been putting up for Vanya and the rest of the group was starting to wear thin as the pain and everything else was catching up to her, but he'll be damned if he'll let her throw herself into whatever pit of despair she's in and drag Klaus down with her.
Especially when he hears the way that Klaus tells him he's glad he's here, and whatever smartass remark he could think of saying evaporates from his mouth. Instead, he just nods and reaches for the tray to take it from him.
"What can I say, only the family bulldog can handle shit like this." She won't like it, he knows that already, but whatever. Diego had grown to be the definition of a bull in a china shop, and he'll use that particular skill to good use.
"But fine, I'll take it to her and get her to eat. Go lay down or something while the kid naps, we'll join you guys after Allison eats." He says it with certainty, as if there is no alternative to what his plan. "Maybe we can go get ice cream or something."
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Klaus can't pinpoint whether he's relieved that Diego is taking up the helm here or if he's too afraid to let this moment go. But the tray leaves his hands and Diego's already talking about later plans and Klaus puts on a little smile. "Mm, you'll win your way to Claire's heart so fast with a proposition like that."
He's on the move again, his body a ball of uncertain energy even when there's nowhere to pull that energy from. Stop squirming, you're making me nervous, Dave would have said, had said once upon a time. Everything reminds him of the pretty man on the battlefield with the sweet eyes and sweeter smile, and the hole in Klaus's heart grows wider each time.
"If you get into a fight, at least try and save the dishes. I like those ones." He shrugs a shoulder and gives a little wiggle of his fingers to his brother. "Just let yourself in, don't bother knocking."
He pads away from the kitchen, coffee and half a sandwich left behind on the counter. He pauses in the hallway one time to glance back, both exhausted and hopeful, before he slips into his room. He won't sleep; he can't. He can't remember the last time he rested. So he might well put himself to bed, wrap himself up in blankets, but he always comes to, sweaty and screaming, no matter the beginning.