ιѕαвєℓα (rivaini) wrote in valloic, @ 2020-08-18 19:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !: action/thread/log, the umbrella academy: diego hargreeves, ₴ inactive: isabela |
WHO: Isabela & Diego
WHAT: Diego gets a memory dump
WHERE: Morningside
WHEN: Early morning on the 14th
WARNINGS: Nah, just some schmoop! And spoilers for UA Season 2~
STATUS: Complete
Nah, bro. You got shanked in the heart. Everything in our new life is connected to a plot to assassinate the President. That can’t be a coincidence. Do you know how hard it is to trust people when your whole childhood was bullshit and manipulation? Well, might as well do some good before we die horribly. Difference is, they love me back. Dad? Who are these assholes? Diego awoke with a start. Everything hurt. His head throbbed as if something had been pressing on, too hard, too long. His eyes felt like they’d been scratched with sandpaper. His stomach felt as if he’d been shanked by his own father and left to die in a pool of blood--oh wait, that had actually happened. Diego reached down to gingerly brush at the cauterized wound, but no. It hadn’t happened. Or it had, but. The fuck? He stared up at the ceiling and then turned over to look at Isabela, sleeping. Right. Vallo. That was what was here, and now, and real, and what Diego could focus on. Not some strobe light flash bang cacophony of faces, explosions, Mom, Dad, death, Ben, JFK, the FBI, Olga Foroga, bullets, his stupid hair, that only felt real. It was that weird, nebulous time of the morning where the sun hadn’t yet peeked out but the black sky had faded into shades of greys and purples. The time when normally, Diego would have just been getting back from patrolling the streets, if this was 2019. But it wasn’t, and it wasn’t 1963. Either way, Diego awake now and what would happen if he closed his eyes again? What else could be stuffed in his head? Carefully, he rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. He thought about leaving, thought about going over to each of his siblings’ homes to see them, creepy as that sounded, just to make sure they were alive and whole. He thought about waking up Isabela, or even messaging the Fryes and Serefin but that seemed too...too much. For what? For this mental breakdown he was having over literally nothing? Diego ran a hand across his head, only a bit surprised when he didn’t have to keep pulling through ‘mental ward chic’ hair. Well. At least there was that. Isabela wasn’t a particularly heavy sleeper, but she’d been slumbering decently until she felt the mattress shift, and picked up on kitchen sounds from the other room - she’d been drifting on calm seas, in fact, until black lace lashes fluttered open. There wasn’t any light struggling to get past the blinds on the window, so she wasn’t sure what time it was, given that the sun remained resolutely below the horizon. She thought she smelled coffee percolating so she slid around to stretch and stand; given that she tended to sleep naked (it was so comfy in the summertime, when it was bloody hot as balls outside) she only paused to grab one of Diego’s t-shirts - it fell to about mid-thigh on her - and pull it on. Then she shuffled into the kitchen, spotting her person. One hand lifted to rub at her eyes, burnished gold and still sleepy. “You’re up early, handsome,” she said, voice a bit crackly - her arms slid around him from behind, and she pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” Lost in his own thoughts he was running, sprinting down the street convinced he could save the President, he launched himself at his fucking father and it wasn’t Reginald Hargreeves and the President died mixed with Isabela’s unerring ability to travel near silently had Diego near leaping out of his skin at the contact. Jesus Christ, Hargreeves, get it under fucking control. “S--” oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, the word was stuck in Diego’s throat like a physical presence ironically blocking itself from coming out fully formed. He swallowed. Tried to breathe. “Sorry.” His arms looped over Isabela’s, interlocking their fingers because it was something tangible, here and now and solid and sure. “Weird dream,” was Diego’s excuse for all of a minute before his brow furrowed. “Or not a dream.” Because the details weren’t fading out of focus the longer Diego was awake and tried to concentrate on them, instead, they were becoming clearer and connecting together instead of just random nonsense images. “I think I--maybe had amnesia or something? Literally yesterday I only remembered Five teleporting us out after Vanya blew up the moon.” Good fucking GOD was his life a shitshow, why was anyone even bothering? There was an answer to that question, somewhere just out of reach. Diego didn’t know what, exactly, it was, but he knew enough to take comfort in it. He turned around and placed his chin on top of Isabela’s head. “But now it’s like I know what happened after that. Makes no fucking sense.” When Diego turned, she smushed her face against his chest instead of his shoulder, and Isabela’s arms went around his waist so she could squeeze him in an anaconda sort of hug - well, he could take it, anyway. He was made of tough stuff. “Probably a quirk of this place, hm?” she suggested, hands slipping down to shamelessly fill with ass - both palms, right there, and it was meant to be comforting, thank you very much. Because she certainly didn’t have an explanation for all that nonsense, or why any nonsense happened around here - from angry bunnies to goblins to skeletons from her homeworld, they just happened. Trying to understand it was an exercise in futility; you just had to learn to roll with it. “What happened after the moon blew up?” To put herself in prime listening position, she released Diego and hopped up on the counter, to perch there - though she didn’t release him entirely, because she caught him in between her knees and hooked her ankles at his back, no running off until he explained a little. It was no huge secret that Diego was terrible at expressing himself in words. When confronted with emotions and having to deal with them, Diego’s instinct rooted in self-preservation was to turn inward and externally become all claws and fangs and snarls and barbs with his words until he was left alone like he claimed he wanted. It was hard, it was so hard to unlearn all of the bullshit their childhood had been, but he was slowly realizing that it wasn’t so much about the unlearning as it was about being better. It wasn’t a change that happened overnight, like these apparent memories appearing from nowhere, but instead was a conscious choice. To know better, to do better, to be better. Ugh, that was way too self-reflective for his own liking. So he didn’t try to run away from Isabela because he didn’t want to, there was a comfort in feeling secure and safe to open up instead of shutting down. “We went back in time, like, fifty-plus years, but not at all the same time,” he started, lip curling, clear what Diego thought about that. As insane as his siblings were, as much as Diego would protest that he didn’t want them around, he couldn’t help but feel...better when they were all together. Even if it was just so that he knew where they were and what trouble they were inevitably getting into so he could roll his eyes and dart in at the last minute to save the day. And it went on from there, disjointed in parts as memories flooded in, and belatedly he realized that some of this would make absolutely no sense to Bela just because she had no frame of reference for the impact of the assassination of John F. Kennedy on the country, so he tried to explain that but probably failed at the why it was so important to him. He talked about the Swedish assassins, Klaus’s weird, probably pervy sex cult, he talked about hugging Ben-as-Klaus, he talked about Vanya and trying to save her life. He talked about seeing his mom, but not as his mom, as Grace the confident, intelligent, self-assured girlfriend of Reginald Hargreeves (and what a mindfuck that was, gross). He talked about the Temps Commission, the Handler, resetting the timeline...ish, going back to their time and the Sparrow Academy and Ben, Ben alive but very much not their brother. “Holy shit,” Diego finished, resting his face in the crook of Isabela’s neck and breathing in the cinnamon-open air scent. “I never want to talk again.” It was true, Isabela didn’t have a lot of frame of reference about many of these historical events or what life was like for someone in the country Diego was from, in the 1960s - even the calendar was different in Thedas, different names for the months - but she wasn’t stupid. She could put the pieces together, and she could at least discern how all of this made him feel. That was the important thing, anyway. Her fingers carded through his hair - she knew him well by now, knew of his childhood. Knew that he had been used as some kind of tool to egg on his brother Luther, but he had been raised kind of lacking the ability to open up to other people. Or relying on other people - he didn’t know how, had to learn all of that fresh. And don’t even get her started on fucking with the timeline so much - it had been done so often it was hard to tell if it hurt or helped, but in general, she knew that time magic of any kind was dangerous. “I think that’s the most you’ve ever talked,” she teased, fingers scritching gently against his scalp. “That’s a lot to have to remember - may take awhile to settle, yeah? I wish this place didn’t have to show you what you’re missing back home - not like we can even do anything about it.” She also didn’t want to think about what it was like for her back home - trying to take comfort in the sea breeze, the spray of salt and the open air, sailing off to Maker knew where as if she could distance herself from the pain of losing Hawke. Here, she’d come to terms with it - realised that it was okay to let him go, understanding his decision, while at the same time still always loving him. It was a love well-earned, just like this one. She made sure to say that, too. “I love you,” she added, hand cupping Diego’s cheek. “You’re here, with me, and I’m not going anywhere.” Diego huffed a laugh. “Yeah, consider me tapped out for the rest of the decade. Just grunts and hand gestures from now on.” And while it was a lot of talk for Diego, he was only slightly surprised to find that even though he was still confused and still with phantom pains, there was a relief that came with essentially word vomiting and being heard. It was being vulnerable, he thought, and Diego hated that. His typical way of dealing with his emotions was to patrol the streets at all hours of the night and bash in the skulls of low life criminals until the wee hours of the morning when he was so exhausted he could collapse straight into sleep. Which, sure, did wonders for the crime rate in the city, but hadn’t exactly been healthy. Physical vulnerability, he could deal with, he could train, he could treat his body like a temple, he could fix that. Emotional vulnerability, well. That was much more daunting. So he kept his circle tight and close and he showed up and he acted as guard dog, even when they didn’t need it, because that was how Diego showed he cared. His loyalty, his love, though not easily won, refused to be shaken. He kissed Isabela then, smoothing back her sleep mussed hair. “I know. Same,” he promised, those words coming out as steady as anything. Someday soon, he’d say the words back, they wouldn’t weigh so heavy on the rusted safe of his heart. Even now, it wasn’t that he didn’t feel it, he did, he just couldn’t quite get over that mountain just yet. But it was something he wanted and when he was finally able to, it would be because he had fought his inner demons. Once, it seemed impossible. Now, he could think ‘soon’ and have that come without the knee jerk reaction of shrinking back like it was all something he shouldn’t want because it made him weak. “I’m thankful for you, you know? Not just because of right now, but every day, all the time. So I’m not really missing anything back home, because I’m here, with you, and I’m also not going anywhere. It’s your ass, mostly,” he added, with a wry grin, hand sliding down for a teasing slap. Okay, no, it wasn’t that, obviously, but Bela had dangerous curves and like hell he wasn’t going to appreciate them. Often. Diego turned to grab two mugs and fill them with coffee, adding more cream and sugar to Isabela’s while his remained black like his soul. “Hey, so. What if you move in? If you want to keep your own space, that’s okay, you should. I just like you being around. I like this.” And he honestly meant that if Isabela hated the idea, he wouldn’t have been offended. Their relationship wasn’t about expectations or operating on anyone’s timeline, it was built on respect, support, and doing better together than alone. “It’s your ass,” Isabela countered, flashing a beauty queen grin that tipped her mouth upward. The siren song of coffee called, so she pushed away from the counter and took a cup of the dark brew (though hers was more taupe, because of the cream and sugar), indulging in a sip and then - Andraste’s tits, Diego asked her to move in with him. That was unexpected. Sure, she slept over pretty frequently - they took turns, sometimes he’d stay at Skyhold with her - but as for moving in, playing house and all that, he probably wouldn’t be able to get used to the more rustic feel of the castle. Which was fair. Was it odd that she actually wanted to move in with him? The thought of it in Kirkwall, when Hawke inherited that large manor with all those staircases she carved dicks into, was enough to give her hives. Now, not so much. She could still maintain her independence even when living with someone, couldn’t she? They didn’t have to be up each other’s bums all the time - they weren’t now anyway. Both of them had their own schedules and whatnot, their own friends (though she liked Diego’s friends too). “As long as you have space here for my beauties - “ Her daggers, of course, “...then I think we can make it work.” And then she slapped his ass this time. Diego smiled then, more of a softening of his face than anything. Sometimes it was hard to remember that his face could do that, that he knew how to do something other than be at intensity level 5000 or that the miles of barriers Diego built around himself could come down. But they had, he remembered, he remembered looking around and seeing his siblings, the people he loved even when he would have sworn six ways from Sunday that he didn’t. In spite of, or maybe because of, everything, he loved them, and they loved him. Which was the harder thing to accept, he thought, but as much as thinking about the love of his siblings, the love of people here made him want to curl up and brace himself, he wasn’t running away or punching things in anger. Progress, he thought. Growth, even. Gross. “Pretty sure we could make something work, yeah,” he said, winking and tapping their coffee mugs together like sealing some sort of deal. “And this ass don’t quit, thanks for noticing.” Whether or not he said things like that just to be ridiculous or because he believed it was anyone’s guess. Probably a little bit of both. He tilted his head to the ceiling, as if somehow that would give him courage and strength for what he said next. But there was no amount of strength that would get him through, Diego would much rather have faced down hundreds members of the Commission shooting automatic weapons at him (and had, take that, mofos) than face what he had to do next. “Fuck me, I have to talk to my siblings.” |