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“Okay, I can see you’re upset,” Klaus says, raising his hands in front of his chest in a placating manner, “but why don’t you put the knife down and we can talk about this like slightly more adjusted people?”
A knife flies past his head, hitting the shelf behind him.
“Weird way of doing that, but I’ll take it– and he has more. Oh, come on, where are you hiding so many of them,” he ducks behind the couch, knowing full well that’s more of a psychological band-aid than anything, because if Diego really wanted, he could stab him no matter where Klaus hid. But still! It’s the thought that counts, right? “I already said I’m sorry, alright!”
“Sorry isn’t going to help you when I kick your ass!” Diego snarls from somewhere near the doorway. And hey, that’s already a step down from stabbing– yay, progress.
“It was just a scratch, Diego,” he calls, cautiously looking over the back of the couch. His brother is standing like an angry bouncer at the door if bouncers carried sharp knifes ready to gut some unlucky trespasser. Klaus, who likes his guts where they are, inside his body, thank you very much, slides back down to the floor. “Your car will survive, I’ll paint it over the weekend if your panties are in such a bunch.”
There’s a minute of silence, and Klaus doesn’t dare to breathe too much, too loud, in case Diego is going through the extremely complicated process of calming the fuck down. He’s tempted to tell him to relax, it’s just a car, but his survival instincts kick in just in time to wisely shut him up.
“What the fuck were you even doing trying to drive it?”
“Well,” Klaus glances at his left, where Ben is sitting calmly at an armchair like the asshole ghost he is, “Ben wanted to go to the park, and he was being a whiny ass bitch about it.”
“Hey,” he complains, half-heartedly.
“So it’s Ben’s fault, then?” Diego demands, in that voice that really means he doesn’t believe that and Klaus should please try to find a better excuse.
“Yeah, Klaus,” Ben echoes mildly, turning a page from his book, “so it’s my fault, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Klaus begins diplomatically, because it’s completely unfair that they are ganging up on him when Diego can’t even see Ben. If he did, he would know death turned Ben into a little shit who thinks he’s oh-so-funny.
But before he could think up a way of following his statement that wouldn’t end up with several knives sticking out of his stomach, Allison’s voice interrupts his train of thoughts. “What is going on here?”
Knowing he’s only got one shot before Diego explains things through his very biased point of view, Klaus scrambles up from behind the couch, pointing accusingly at his brother, “he’s trying to kill me,” he says, desperately trying to convey how urgent this all is, “help me, Allison, you’re my only hope!”
Allison looks between them, then at the knife sticking out the shelf, then sighs. “Diego,” she admonishes softly, “you know Mom doesn’t like when you throw knives inside the house.”
“That’s it? That’s what you took from this?” Klaus makes a broad gesture, hoping to encompass the whole situation.
She sighs again. “And don’t kill your brother, he’s the one doing the dishes tonight.”
Diego makes a considering sound. “You have a point,” he slips the knives back to wherever the hell he keeps them.
Apparently satisfied with the results, Allison glances around again. “Have any of you seen Five?”
“He left about half an hour ago, didn’t say where,” Ben offers from the armchair.
“He left about half an hour ago, to god knows where,” Klaus repeats dutifully.
“Thanks, if Five comes back, tell him I’m looking for him?” She doesn’t wait for either of them to agree, hurriedly leaving the room. Whatever is going on there sounds complicated and potentially dangerous, if Five is involved. It also sounds like they have that very much under control, good for them. Besides, if Allison wants any help, she should try being more helpful herself.
Klaus considers making a run for the door, take advantage of the momentary distraction, but he doesn’t put it past Diego to tackle him to the floor. “Are you still out for blood?” He asks instead, ready to duck.
“No,” Diego says, but his entire personality and body language scream yes. “But you’re fixing my car. Take it to a shop, paint it youself– I don’t give a shit. You have until Monday.”
“Fine,” he huffs, “it’s just some paint, how hard can it be, anyway?”
The loud scoff from Ben says it might be a lot.
But Diego is still on a tirade. “And if I ever catch you driving anything before you get your license, I’m going to cut your precious little coat to shreds!”
“Oh my god, will you relax? We were just going to the park, that’s like a five minutes drive from here–”
“And a lot can happen in five minutes when you don’t know how to fucking drive. You could have gotten in an accident– you could have gotten hurt, or gotten someone else hurt, or worse. ” Diego looks like he wanted to give emphasis to his speech with a few stabbings in some key points, but Klaus gets the message.
He deflates, studying the throw pillows sitting symmetrically perfect on the couch. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Already got the lecture from Luther, thanks.”
“Luther is a dumb ass,” Diego retorts seemingly on automatic.
“Are you guys going to hug it out now?” Ben asks without glancing up from his book.
“Shut up,” Klaus hisses, kicking the back of the armchair because he can’t kick his shin. He’s compromising here, alright.
“I’m just saying, I might cry if you do,” he continues, ignoring the dark look Klaus gives him. In hindsight, it must be hard to be intimidated when you’re already dead. Klaus will have to work on upping his game.
Diego, to his credit, is desensitized to the weird shit that happens around Klaus by now, so he just marches up to take his knife back without comment. He does glare pointedly in warning as he returns it to his holster.
There’s little to do now that the immediate threat to his life is no longer hanging over his head, Klaus sprawls on the couch. There’s some paint in the garage, he thinks. That should work, right? Houses, walls, cars– it’s all the same shit, he figures. Maybe he could even get away with painting Diego’s car in a color that looks less like an eighty-years-old partially blind old man owns it.
Yeah, that doesn’t sound like it could backfire at all.