Archive of Our Own

“Allison!”

She asked for this, she reminds herself, automatically pulling a non-committal smile, one that tugs at the corners of her eyes. If she’s about to get papped she wants to look as cute as possible.

“Allison!” He’s a bit closer now. Allison continues pretending to mind her own business, reading her book outside of a cafe. She’s been waiting for Vanya to show up. Her sister’s late.

“Allison!” And hello, that’s right in her face. Alright. Allison blinks, feigns having only just noticed the guy.

“Hi,” she says, noting the camera and the notepad sticking out of his khakis.

A couple at a nearby table glance over. Allison can’t quite see their expressions without looking directly at them, just notices their heads move in her peripheral vision.

“Hi,” he returns; continues on to introducing himself with the name of a newspaper.

“Oh,” Allison says, “let me give you my manager’s number,” she rummages in her bag for one of Agenese’s cards.

“Just wondering how you’re doing,” he says, ignoring her.

“Fine thank you,” Allison returns, polite. “Just meeting up with my sister,” she adds, hoping it sounds good and normal and like she’s a functioning adult who interacts positively with her family. Solely in case her therapist ends up asking her about whatever story is going to come out of this.

“Is your sister helping you after this morning’s news break?” The guy barrels on. He’s got a little recorder going, Allison notices suddenly, a bad feeling growing.

“We’re going to go shopping,” Allison says, keeping the smile in place, hoping she sounds relaxed.

“Mmhmm,” He nods, looking thrilled. The bad feeling gets a little bit more bad. “Have you spoken to your ex husband at all? Did you know he was going to do the interview?”

Oh. Alright. Allison collects her things, slides on her sunglasses. “Let me give you my manager’s card,” she pushes it across the table rather than hand it to him. “I’m afraid I really have to get going.”

Several more heads in the vicinity have swiveled around to look at them.

“Is that Allison Hargreeves?” She hears, in a terrible stage whisper somewhere behind her.

“Okay, okay, thanks,” he doesn’t take the card. He does snap a couple of shots without even looking into his lens. Doesn’t even look apologetic about it. Allison keeps her face friendly. She exits as fast as she can without looking like she’s in a hurry, heads in the direction of Vanya’s apartment.

Being famous is fine, most of the time. When she’s getting what she wants.

En route Allison happens past a news stand. It displays a selection of tabloids. Allison startles, a little surprised to see a picture of herself from about two years ago splashed across one, sunglasses on, head ducked, hand raised as though to fend off the camera. Looking around, she sees another; she’s walking through an airport. That’s over six months old, too. She recognizes the outfit. Another one has a photograph she doesn’t recognize, she’s holding a piece of paper over her face looking drawn.

The headline reads, ‘RUMOR HAS IT! PATRICK HENDRICKSON’S SHOCKING REVEAL’.

There’s a payphone around the corner. Allison gets in. Dials Agenese’s number from memory. Greets her PA, Masha.

“Allison,” Masha says, sounding a little frazzled. “God. I’ve been trying to get you all morning, where have you been?”

“I was meeting my sis-”

“I’m putting you through to Agenese, one sec.”

Alright, then. Allison stands in a mostly see-through box, glad that the street is quiet. She definitely has a bad, bad feeling now.

“Allison,” Agenese’s voice comes through the handset, clipped. It’s not how her manager usually speaks to her. “Where the hell have you been? Did you know about that clusterfuck of an exclusive your ex-leech decided to give?”

“Agenese,” she says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just got papped at a cafe, then I saw a headline and called you straight away-”

“It’s fucked up, Allison, I’m not going to lie,” Agenese interrupts. “I’m not commenting on your private life, but this is going to affect your career. I’ve had four sponsors call me trying to pull out of the BAFTAs next month. Valentino’s PR people are advising he make a public statement. We’re holding them off, claiming it’s bullshit to squeeze more settlement out of your divorce.”

“What – I haven’t read anything, can you just tell me what I need to know?”

“Best we just get you to an airport and fly you out here. Don’t talk to anybody. Try and look innocent as hell.”

“No, Agenese, I have to stay with my family,” Allison says, and that’s not even in question. “My father just died, and my sister-”

“Your ex is claiming he doesn’t know whether he consented to getting married or having Claire. He’s told a reporter that you potentially roofied him for six years with your Rumor thing. It is not pretty, Allison. We have accusations for fucking miles.”

“What the hell?” Allison feels her eyes widen.

“I’m advising you as your manager to get your ass back to your management team.”

“I… can’t.” She can’t. Oh God, not after everything they’ve just been through.

“Then I’m suspending your pay due to contractual breach of pissing me off and telling you this: Lay. Low.”

“Agenese?!”

“You want your career to survive, we need to do some damage control. You don’t care about your career – fine, do nothing. But you’re a product, you have an agency, you have a management team; if you decide to fuck this up by taking it into your own hands, you’ve put half of these people out of a job.”

“I won’t, I’m going to – okay, I’ll lay low, I’ll call and check in, I just, I cannot leave my family,” Allison says, voice steady even though her hands are shaking.

“Right,” Agenese says. “I’m giving you 12 hours to make a real decision. Talk to the press in that time and you’re going to be facing the consequences on your own.”

“I’ve got it,” Allison intones, growing numb. “I’ll call you in-”

Agenese hangs up on her. Allison, despite her feelings, takes a second to breathe. She carefully replaces the handset and leaves the booth.

With all the composure she can muster, she heads in the direction of the place where she spent her last years before leaving home plotting her escape; her rise to the top of the A list. She used to think: Reginald will be sorry he ever ignored me when he sees how famous I am. One day, I’ll be too important to ignore, but I won’t call.

She imagined him seeing her on billboards and posters, somehow simultaneously winning his approval and uncaringly dismissing his opinion as worthless.

Childish, she thinks now. She was so childish.

When she opens the front door of the Academy, she’s greeted by Klaus. He draws her into a hug; less probably because it’s her and more because today he’s hugging anyone who turns up at the door. She indulges for a second, imagines having a family who want to hug her because that’s just what they do.

“Nice robe,” she comments, when she draws away, putting the emotions in a box and taking in the red leopard print he’s wrapped in. “Very Don Juan.”

“Thank you, darling,” Klaus says, showing it off, oblivious. “A piece from dear Diego’s wardrobe.”

Despite the abysmally shitty hour she’s experiencing, the blatant lie makes her laugh out loud, unwittingly imagining her sulky brother in the same outfit. Klaus looks pleased. “You look good,” she comments, because it’s true.

“Danke,” Klaus beams. It fades after a second. “Yourself, not so glowy as usual,” he observes, eyebrows drawing down.

“Oh,” Allison says, looks down. “No. Probably not.” She composes herself. “Actually,” she says, “I kind of need to use the phone.”

“Oh,” Klaus says, “go ahead. Luther’s in the garden, by the way,” he says, winks.

“Thanks,” Allison says, unexpected relief coming with the first step across the foyer.

She heads downstairs. It’s so quiet. Feels kind of like a tomb; the posters and empty bedrooms all haunted with the bizarre circumstances of their upbringing.

She dials Patrick’s number.

She used to live there, she thinks bizarrely. This used to be her number.

It goes to voicemail.

“Patrick, hi, it’s Allison,” she says, after the beep. Puts on a baffled tone. “Look, there’s some really confusing stuff in the press today. Agenese wants me to come in but after my Father’s death and everything that’s happened here -”

“Allison,” a breathless voice interrupts her, the voicemail recording cut off. “Allison, you have to know, whatever there is between us I did not do that interview.”

“Patrick,” she says, shoulders sagging in unexpected relief. “You picked up.”

“I’ve been sitting here listening to voicemails come in all morning – Allison, whatever you think happened, I fucked up, okay? I would never have said any of those things if I’d known that guy was a reporter-”

“Wait, what?” Allison says.

“I was drunk, and it’s been hard, and I’ve been working through some things with my therapist, and I don’t know why I said anything, he led me on, I don’t – I don’t work with the press, you know this,” he says, desperation in his voice. “I need you to know that.”

“I haven’t read anything yet,” Allison says, voice flat. “Agenese told me you did an exclusive and that my career may as well be over.” That’s not entirely true, but he sounds guilty and she latches on to that.

“Oh, God,” Patrick says. “Look.” His tone changes abruptly. “Allison, I think I need to take Claire away for a bit. Out of the country. She doesn’t need any of this. My parents have a place in France-”

“I remember,” Allison says, sort of stunned,

“-and it would be a good chance to introduce her to her heritage and avoid whatever fallout happens here.”

“No,” Allison says, “you can’t.”

She hears Patrick swallow. It’s painful, suddenly. “Nothing I said was a lie,” he tells her. “I just never meant for it to get published like this.”

“You coward,” Allison says, shakes, suddenly unable to bear what he’s saying. “You utter coward. What have you done?”

“Calling me a coward? Face up to yourself, Allison,” he says, and it sounds hard and cold. “Face up to what you’ve done.”

And the line is dead.

Allison slides down the wall, phone swinging from it’s perch. Her face is screwed up, like she wants to cry, but tears don’t come.

Maybe she used them all up already between one set and another.

She exhales, and it sounds like a stutter.

She gets back up. Calls a different number.

“Hello?” This one is answered after two rings.

“Hey, Vanya,” she says, forehead against the wall. “Sorry I missed you earlier-”

“Allison! Oh, shit,” Vanya says, “I’m so sorry, I got my dates mixed up, where are you? Can I meet you now?”

“Oh,” Allison says, because, oh. “No, um. Actually, do you think...” she breathes, thinks. “Could you come to the Academy, do you think?” She says. “Via a news stand? And, uh. Bring a copy of every tabloid with my face on it when you do?”

“Um...” Vanya trails off. “Oh no,” she says, “what’s happened?”

“I don’t actually know,” Allison confesses. “I should probably find out.”

“Okay,” Vanya says. “Okay. Now?”

“Whenever works for you,” Allison tells her, because she doesn’t want to be a burden, but.

“Alright,” Vanya says, “see you in a bit,” and Allison breathes and tries to pretend her chest doesn’t feel like there’s a rubber band holding it closed.

Age has come with the realization that she doesn’t know everything, and not everything she does is a great idea. Another piece of wisdom revolves around knowing that however bad something might be, waiting to find out is worse than knowing. Allison isn’t actually sure if that’s right, here, or not.

I trusted her so much. It never occurred to me – never – look, my ex wife can make people do anything she wants. Anything. You know how terrifying that was once the doubt started? It was all I could think about. What was real?

Vanya brings press as requested. They’re all quoting the same transcript. It’s damning.

… If she’s doing it to her child, she’s doing it to me. And if she’s doing it to me, what’s to say she isn’t doing it (everywhere)? It’s been so hard. It’s made a f***ing mess of my head. I had nobody to talk to about it. All I could do was file for divorce.

Allison makes herself read until she feels too sick to read any more.

I kept thinking, what did she even want me for?

It’s my responsibility to keep Claire safe

I just felt betrayed, and sick, and

I don’t know where that power comes from, but it’s real. And my biggest fear is that Claire will someday be able to do it too.

It’s dark out. Allison is dry eyed, but she feels like she’s sobbing. Luther finds her like that – she never did go outside to find him.

Vanya and Klaus have been keeping her in tea and sympathy. She doesn’t deserve either.

On Luther’s approach Vanya begins hurriedly tucking covers into other covers; essentially hiding the worst of it, subtly tidying like she thinks there’s going to be some fall out.

“Hey,” Luther says, looking pleased to see her. He glances at the other two. “Is something going on?”

Allison shrugs. “Just some bad press,” she says, downplaying the absolutely awful way she is currently feeling. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Luther says, suspicious. Vanya and Klaus clear out, rather conspicuously. Allison hears them muttering to each other, before the sounds disappear off down the hall.

Allison sighs. “Okay,” she says, “Patrick gave some kind of interview to some guy he didn’t know was a journalist. He was drunk. He said… a lot.”

“Oh, no,” and Luther just looks… sad.

“My manager says my career’s over, basically. I should probably call her.”

“Allison,” Luther says. He sits gingerly next to her, reaches out. “What happened?”

And then she sobs, out of nowhere, curls into his arm.

Luther. He has always been there. Always been so easy for her. Number one; what an achievement. She feels a little sick that she ever wanted him for that reason. God. She hates thinking about it. It’s too complicated.

Now, though. Luther loves her more freely than anyone she’s ever met. And he knows every sick little part of her soul, and she’d tell him the rest.

Never any judgement, never any condemnation. Just, ‘what happened’ and a shoulder to lean on.

Allison sobs.

“What can I do?” Luther asks. The guilt doesn’t stop her from crying a little more into his arm, before she pulls back, wipes at her eyes.

“Nothing,” Allison says, “honestly. Please. But I think I might have to crash here for a little while.”

“Okay,” Luther says. “Do you need anything right now?”

“No, no,” Allison reassures him, and he’s so, so, so good to her. Too good.

Eventually, she gets up, heads back down toward the phone. Duty calls.

Agenese tells her she’s not off the payroll after all. Damage control still works for PR if she’s not there, if she just stays quiet and gives no interviews and – what the fuck does she mean, she called Patrick?

“He’s a model, he doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together,” Agenese says, after Allison tells him about the allegedly fraudulent reporter getting her ex drunk. “Alright, I’ll send it to legal, see who we can sue. Stay. Out. Of. Trouble.”

She can do that.

The next day sees her up at 11am, lethargic. She’s laying low; she has no reason to get out of bed at any decent hour.

When she gets to the kitchen, she’s bemused to find Five in his old monogrammed pajamas, sipping coffee at the breakfast table.

“What are you doing here?” Allison asks, as Mom makes her eggs on request.

Five levels her with a look. “I live here, idiot,” he says. Allison blinks.

“Oh,” she says, goes back to her coffee.

“How’s the marriage?” Five kind of snaps.

“How’s being a dick?” Allison returns in kind.

Five snorts.

After a minute, Allison says, “I fucked up.”

Five tells her, “yeah, I figured. Happens to us all, eventually.”

“What, screwing up a marriage?” Allison shoots back, as Mom slides eggs in front of her.

“No,” Five says, staring into his coffee moodily. “Getting screwed over by your powers.”

Oh. Right. That.

She doesn’t have a lot to do. Luther, she assumed, would find her at some point, but he’s always been an early riser and now he’s out in the gardens again and she just. Doesn’t want to go outside.

She’s about half way through the stack of tabloids again, rereading every word and trying to just process it all instead of ignore it (see, she listens in therapy – even if she spends most of that time playing a part. Who wouldn’t with what she has at stake?) when the doorbell rings. She looks up from her vantage point near the stairs, where she expected would be the least trafficked part of the house. Apparently not.

Klaus skids around a corner. She frowns, recognizing the sun dress and hat as definite former residents of her own wardrobe. Before she can say anything, he’s opening the door.

“Diego!” Klaus greets, magnanimously, going in for a hug.

Despite her mood Allison bites back a laugh as Diego looks horribly confused for a second, arms out like he’s about to defend himself. She’s surprised when he recovers in less time than it takes Klaus to let go, and even more so when he clamps an arm around Klaus’ waist, picks him up, walks him inside and shuts the door.

When he’s done, he puts Klaus down and pats his back. “Hi Klaus,” he says.

Klaus, looking delighted just from the body language Allison has of his back and shoulders, gives him a happy squeeze before he slides off. “What brings you to Casa Miserables?” he inquires, cheerfully.

“Heard somebody was having a crappy time,” Diego says, in a kind of patronizing voice as he spies her over by the stairs. “Heard somebody’s marriage ended up splashed all over the papers because their dip shit ex is a dip shit.”

Klaus punches him in the arm. Diego doesn’t even flinch. Allison thinks that it has to have hurt, Klaus isn’t exactly a noodle. Diego is just doing the tough guy thing.

“Well,” she says, “you’re right.”

“What?” Concern replaces his smug expression instantly. He walks towards her. “Are you okay?”

Allison throws her hands up. “No,” she says, honestly. “Have you seen this?” She gestures to the piece in front of her speculating on whether or not she’d have already been arrested had she been a man, pointing out things about her relationship with Patrick that she’s never thought about but make her feel ill.

The worst part is that they aren’t strictly speaking untrue.

No. The worst part is that she’s glad she’s not a man right now.

Diego snatches the paper up, throws it on the floor. Allison’s eyes widen in surprise. “Stop reading it,” he says, shortly. “Let me guess. You already read it all and now you’re just torturing yourself.”

“Torturing,” Klaus says behind him, and Allison doesn’t really catch what he means.

“Vanya called,” Diego says, in that authoritative way he affects in situations he feels call for it. “She’s coming over in a bit. Where’s Luther?” He says it like he’s irritated Luther isn’t right there. That might be a first.

“He’s in the garden,” Klaus says loudly. “I’ll get him. You two, uh.” He looks between them, looks a little lost. “I’m going to go,” he says, walking away.

“You should lay into me,” Allison says, suddenly. “You should. This is all true. I’m a monster.”

In her periphery, Diego’s leg is jiggling, like he wants to pace or do something but isn’t.

“Fuck that guy,” Diego says, after a moment, rather overly decisive. Allison stares. Diego stares back. Allison can’t think of anything to say. “You married an idiot,” Diego advises, in the ensuing silence, a combative look on his face.

“He’s a good person,” Allison tries, thinking about how true it is, trying desperately not to think about what damage she’s managed to cause. What damage she fucking causes everywhere, Jesus Christ what if more people come forward? What if more people suddenly wonder-

“Are you trying to give yourself a heart attack?” Diego says, and he sounds annoyed, but she can’t breathe and he’s getting her onto the floor and propping her against a wall. He’s strong, it’s not any effort for him and she’s so grateful right then. He shoves her torso up so it’s flat and then grabs her hand and holds it against his ribs. “You know how to breathe,” he says, kind of weirdly calm. “Copy me until you remember that you do it all the time.”

It works a bit, somehow, breathing with someone else as a template. For all that he sounds aggravated and she’s used to annoyance and aggression from him, her brothers’ breathing is steady, even his pulse is steady when she can focus on it, and it brings her back to the mildly embarrassing present which is only offset by the knowledge that she isn’t about to die, actually, it was just a cruel trick from her stressed-to-bits brain.

“Oh God, Allison,” she hears, and it’s Luther, and he’s there, and he has her hand. Diego retreats a little early. She begins to panic again, for no reason, and without a word he stops pulling back, keeps her other hand against his ribs.

It abates eventually. Allison feels her body like she hadn’t before; all the heat that’s gathered from the panic leaving her pores.

“Oh God. I’m so sweaty and disgusting,” Allison manages after a minute.

“Take a bath,” Klaus advises, and, why are they all here to witness this? “I’ll get you some comfies. Lounge wear, darling.”

She does end up in the bath. Luther runs it. Diego disappears. Klaus leaves her to get undressed and descend beneath the bubbles.

There’s not much comfort in it, despite what she’d hoped.

Allison contemplates sinking underneath the surface; holding herself there.

The door opens, abruptly.

“Okay,” Klaus is saying, marching in with no regard for her privacy. Brothers she rues, and then; actually, no. Possibly just Klaus. “I’ve got you some jammies,” he’s saying, holding up options; booty shorts and a vest, a tee shirt and some boxers, some branded Umbrella pjs. “I don’t know what’s going to work. But do you know what?” He adds, doesn’t wait for her to respond. “I think you’d rock whatever.”

“Thanks,” Allison manages.

He leaves her be.

It’s a long while later, and the water is getting cold, when she remembers to get out of the tub.

Klaus has left maybe six different kinds of towels all folded for her on a chair where she gets out, plus clothes, but he hasn’t remembered to shut the door. Allison still doesn’t care, gets out, dries off as much as she can be bothered. Shoves a shirt over her head; wonders whose boxers she’s wearing.

“Hey,” says a voice, and it’s different to the other voices that have attempted getting her up so far so she opens her eyes.

“Oh my God, Vanya,” Allison sits up in a hurry, the covers falling away.

“Hi?” Vanya kind of… questions? She looks unsure. Guilt flares up in Allison’s gut. She plows on.

“What are you doing here?”

“What?” Vanya says, seeming confused. “How are you?”

“Regretful,” Allison blurts. “Oh, God.” She puts her face in her hands. “Okay,” she says. “I’m sorry. You of all people don’t want to her me complain about the fact that I did something incredibly stupid.”

“What are you talking about?” Vanya sits on the side of the bed, reaches over. Allison holds on to her hand.

“Don’t make me bring it up again,” Allison says a little desperately. “I ruined your life, too.”

“Dad made you do it to me,” Vanya insists, lacing their fingers. “I know that. You know that.”

“Right,” Allison says, “and I made a bunch of other people do a bunch of other stuff and nobody made me do anything those times.”

Vanya sits with her for a while.

“It’ll blow over,” Vanya says. “Press always does.”

“Right,” Allison says, even though she’s not so sure.

Five finds her in the family room, debating opening up a paper that has the opinion column detailing why she’s actually committed a crime here and should be arrested. She couldn’t read it all the way through, before. She doesn’t want to. She wants to be strong, though. She’s always wanted to be strong.

Without a word he appears in front of her, brandishing one of the two bright green drinks he’s holding. When she just frowns at it, he nudges it at her insistently. The second she takes it, thus releasing the paper, he yanks it out of her lap and throws it behind the antique couch.

“Stop reading that trash,” he tells her, firmly.

Allison wants to tell him that she should read it, wants to explain why it makes her weak if she can’t. She’s not sure how to put it out loud.

“Drink,” Five instructs, and okay, instead of saying anything she knocks back a surprisingly good margarita.

Five holds out his hand for her glass.

“What do you usually do when you’re feeling bad?” He demands, heading back to the bar apparently to make some more.

Go shopping. Get a massage. Get her nails done. Nothing she can do right now.

“You usually sulk?” Five says, misinterpreting her lack of an answer. “Alright,” he says, heads back over with two refilled glasses. “Let’s sulk. Let’s both sulk,” he says, planting himself surprisingly heavily next to her, throwing his feet up on the coffee table. Allison looks at him. “You’re supposed to slouch more, I think,” he says.

“I don’t need to ruin my spine like that,” Allison tells him, and takes a big sip of margarita number two.

“Oh my God, you sound like Diego,” Five says, sprawled, relaxed looking.

“No I do not,” Allison scoffs. “’Do you want me to stab you?’ That’s me sounding like Diego.”

“Sure, sure,” Five smirks. “Okay. A good sulk. Do you want to start complaining about the old man, or should I?”

“How’s that going to help?” Allison asks, baffled.

“It might not. But in my not inconsiderable experience, most things that have gone wrong so far in my very long and horrible life have been almost directly his fault.”

She frowns. “The guys in masks who shot up the theater.”

“Dad’s involved. How do you think he knew about the apocalypse without being about to time travel?”

“That’s not – okay. Um. Ben dying.”

“Why the hell are you even asking,” Five rolls his eyes. “Come on. Try harder.”

“Fuck you,” Allison says, even though she doesn’t usually use the word. Maybe now is the time to start. “Okay. Fine. My husband hearing me Rumor our kid into just feeling tired, because I couldn’t be bothered to tell her yet another story glorifying my actually messed up ridiculous family,” she feels like she should be crying, but she’s just sipping a margarita. “And then filing for divorce.”

“Where were the ethics classes?” Five poses, which she doesn’t know how to interpret. “All that other garbage we learned to parrot. All that nonsense about looking good for the press. Where were the lessons on how to be good people; how to use our powers extraordinarily, instead of just how any person with an ability out of the ordinary would?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Allison whispers, because she does, really.

Five downs the rest of his drink. “Tell you what,” he says. “I’m going to get a bottle and a couple of dice and we can play ‘Knock Out’ until we get too drunk to count.”

Allison is kind of down with that idea.

“Oh my God,” drawls a smug voice, an indeterminate amount of time later. Also, she ‘fell asleep’ at some point. And she guesses Five did, too, because his feet are currently tangled up with hers in the middle of the couch.

“Mmmmmpfh,” Allison manages, rubbing her eyes. They are so dry that it hurts. Her mouth tastes like… nothing great.

“I’m just going to go,” Diego says, and, she thinks simultaneously, Good! And Oh God please help me! And then he adds, “and get some water. Be right back.”

Allison rolls until the back of her head is on the arm of the couch. She kicks Five. He grunts, seemingly asleep, and then kicks her back.

“Owwwww,” she groans, standing, massaging her thigh. Diego reappears, hands her a glass of water. She downs it in one.

“Just don’t throw it up,” he advises, and Allison wants to hit him, but he brought her water.

“My head,” she manages to groan.

“Idiot,” he tells her. “Don’t drink with Five. What made you think that was a good idea?”

“I’m a bad person,” she says, and covers her face with her free hand. “Diego,” she says, the physical discomfort making her weak and pathetic enough to complain to him of all people. “What am I supposed to do?”

He takes the glass; she hears it get put down. And then, in one fluid motion, she’s picked up, bridal style, and he’s on the move.

What the hell. She doesn’t move her hands from her eyes, just kind of braces herself.

When he deposits her – none too gently, besides – on a bed, she just rolls over, can’t be bothered. He leaves.

After a minute, he’s back. “More water,” he says, and there’s the sound of a glass being thunked down on a nearby surface. “Get some sleep,” he advises, shortly.

Allison curls her body up in a ball, drifts miserably until she manages to do what she’s told.

“Allison!”

She sits bolt upright. Her head hurts a little, but she mostly just feels thirsty. It’s not the paparazzi, which, in her dream it had been. It’s…

“Oh,” the voice says, and then there’s a glass in front of her face. It’s water. She accepts it, downs it in one, which doesn’t actually feel that great, but she’s so thirsty.

“Thanks,” she rasps, because she still has manners. “Oh God my mouth tastes disgusting.”

“Yes, yes, that’s the hangover,” Klaus tells her solemnly. “You need to get up, it’ll go away. I need to teach you how to knit.”

Allison spends the next four hours confusing herself with stocking stitch. Just as she realizes that she’s got it, she notes that her headache is pretty much gone and she hasn’t remembered to beat herself up in nearly half a day.

Once Klaus is otherwise occupied, she goes back to the stack of tabloids, rereads the transcripts. It has to stop feeling so shitty at some point.

She can’t sleep. She hides in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning doing sudoku puzzles when she hears the distant sound of the front door in the otherwise quiet house.

“What a fucking idiot,” Klaus is muttering, and Allison sticks her head out into the hallway, has to double take to figure out what she’s seeing. “Jesus Christ Diego,” he continues, and there’s blood everywhere what the hell, “you know phones exist I’ve seen you in the same room as one,” and then Klaus, much stronger than he looks – like he’s always been – gives up on dragging their brother – who appears to be unconscious – drops him forwards and then pulls him over one shoulder in a firemans carry.

“What happened to him?” Is the first thing Allison says, which sounds a little nonchalant now that she says it out loud.

“Oh, Allison,” Klaus says, cheerfully, turning to see her. Diego’s arms swing by his legs. “What are you doing up? I thought that you were one of the functional ones that gets eight hours sleep and drinks tea in the morning because they like it rather than require it to pretend their body has a schedule.”

Allison blinks. “Oh,” she says. “I guess. Couldn’t sleep.” She cranes her neck. “I’m guessing it’s not a spinal injury then,” and gestures vaguely in their direction.

“Ah, no,” Klaus says, “just a little head wound I think. Which is impressive, really. Almost as impressive as how heavy he is; this guy is just solid muscle,” and he goes to pat Diego but the only thing in reach is his butt, and apparently that’s a bit much even for Klaus. Allison watches him recoil and look at his hand in mild disappointment.

“Do you want a hand?” Allison asks, coming forward.

“Please,” Klaus says, “you know how reedy and ill equipped for dealing with heavy weights I am.”

“Sure,” Allison agrees, even though he’s doing fine.

Between them, they get Diego upstairs.

“I don’t know how to get Mom out of charge mode so I’m just going to – oh, do you think there are any cute nurse outfits up here?” Klaus, apparently distracted by that thought, bounds over to the cupboards at the back of the room, leaving Allison to survey the damage. She shuffles her unconscious brother about a little, checks for broken bones. There don’t appear to be any, but he’s taken a big hit from something and it’s trashed his turtleneck.

“Where’s his thing with all his knives?” Allison says, frowning.

“Oh, I took it off at the scene,” Klaus shrugs. “Didn’t want to get stabbed dragging him here.”

“Where the hell were you, what happened?”

“Just a block away, not far. Anyway, yeah, Diego decided to fight a car.” Klaus claps dramatically. “While it was coming at him.”

“He what?” Jesus Christ, Diego.

“No, no, he actually won, that’s the thing,” Klaus reappears at her side with some scissors and a bunch of random bandages. He moves in to chop at the turtleneck. Allison doesn’t help so that later on she can swear she had nothing to do with it. “Managed to take out the tyres while the scoundrels were busy trying to run him over.”

Jesus Chriiiiiist.

It’s a bit alarming, seeing him shirtless. Klaus doesn’t seem to react to the sight, but Allison can see layers on layers of bruising. Some of it’s pretty yellow. The worst is around his ribs.

“He get himself beat up a lot?” Allison queries aloud, not feeling happy all of a sudden.

“Uh,” Klaus pours an alarming amount of stuff from the disinfectant bottle onto a gauze. If Diego were awake that would sting like holy hell. Klaus just leaves the gauze on the first graze he can get to, starts to soak another.

“Give me that,” Allison says, takes it off him, starts doing it properly. Klaus just shrugs.

“You know that’s basically his job, right? All that amateur boxing he does.”

“I thought his ‘job’ was keeping the mean streets clean of criminals,” Allison counters, removing blood and a bit of asphalt from a nasty graze right down by Diego’s ear. He’s going to be lucky if this one doesn’t scar, but, then, she figures, he doesn’t actually have to care.

Allison imagines if it were her face. She’d have been straight on the phone to Agenese.

“No, no,” Klaus waves. “He has like. This place at the gym. So he lives there and practices and coaches and then fights people for entertainment. You know, when he’s not out fighting crims. Saving lives, baby, whatever.”

“And you know all this how exactly?” Allison says, before she can stop herself.

Klaus doesn’t seem bothered. He’s doing something else with a couple of bags now, attached to IV lines. He looks practically professional as he does so.

“He’s always been nice to me,” Klaus says with a shrug, and Allison thinks that’s okay until he adds, “especially when nobody else could be bothered.” He looks to one side, suddenly, mumbles, “you don’t count.” Allison just blinks at him.

“No he hasn’t,” she says, recalling several times over childhood and adolescence where no, he hadn’t been. At all.

Klaus just gives her a look, and it’s perceptive and direct and a bit strange to see on him. “Just because he acts like a moldy toenail half the time doesn’t mean he doesn’t give a shit.”

“I… give a shit,” Allison manages, because ouch, that stings.

“I know,” he looks sympathetic, then turns his attention to the IV line he appears to have created. “He’s going to thank me,” he mutters, lining it up at his brother’s inner elbow with practiced ease, taping the line and then, kind of thoughtfully, Allison thinks, covering it all up with a thin square of gauze. “Antibiotics,” Klaus taps the bag. “Etc.”

They make quick work after that, cleaning him up. At one point, Allison thinks he’s coming round, but his eyes just flutter and then shut. She tries not to worry; a quick check of the clock says Mom’s going to be available soon.

“Hey,” Klaus says, “could you find like. Sweatpants, or something? I just want to see his face when he wakes up in sweatpants.”

“Uh,” Allison gives him a sideways look, decides that she’ll intervene if it gets weird. “Sure. I’m sure Luther’s got something.”

“Perfect,” Klaus cackles, moving his attention to Diego’s boots.

“He what?” Luther’s eyes practically bug out. Allison nods, expression of ‘what can you do’. And then Luther says, “why didn’t he call me?” rather petulantly, like he’s actually hurt about it, and Allison grabs his arm, instinctively wants to gang up on Diego with him, and realizes that’s not actually that nice of an idea.

“Maybe…” she tries, “I think he does this sort of thing all the time? Klaus didn’t seem surprised. Like, at all.”

“I don’t have any sweatpants,” Luther informs her. “Sorry.”

Oh. Oh well.

Oh hang on.

Allison has sweatpants.

“This is hilarious,” Klaus says, when he sees what she’s come back with, apparently also practiced at changing clothes on unconscious people. Allison doesn’t want to examine that one too much, and then feels guilty, and then thinks about all the articles in the tabloids basically describing her as a sex predator and realizes that it’s the first time she’s thought about that since she found her brother dragging her other brother up the stairs at 3am.

Fuck.

She avoids Luther for a bit. He’s too nice to her and she absolutely doesn’t deserve it right now. She looks for Five, instead. Can’t find him.

Looks out the window for a while. Bored out of her mind, which is still better than she figures she deserves.

She comes up the stairs to the infirmary quietly; not quiet enough to not be heard, but she doesn’t know if Diego is still sleeping.

She thinks he is, initially. Klaus is sitting on a stool next to the cot, moving a bit of hair or something off of Diego’s face, fingers like pincers, barely touching him. Unsure of whether to butt in, she crosses her arms, and then hears, “Klaus,” a little drowsily. He’s awake, then.

“Hey, bro,” Klaus says.

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

And Diego tries to sit up, squirms. “Oh,” he says, and lets Klaus push him back down. Allison watches, fascinated. She hasn’t seen them alone together in years and this is so different to how she left them. How they work in her head.

She clocks the second he notices the gauze on his arm, pulls at it, says, “t-t-t-t-,” over like a tic, and he’s going a little bit pale and sweaty and Klaus says,

“count to ten,” and Diego seems to be unable to do that out loud, but at around three in Allison’s head Klaus has removed the IV and is pressing the gauze over the spot while he hides the needles. “All gone,” Klaus says, “Don’t pass out on me. You only just woke up.”

Diego breathes through his nose, heavily. “Thanks,” he says, after a minute. The color is coming back to his face. He’s always hated needles, she thinks; but this looks like a full blown phobia.

“Hey,” she says, deciding it’s best to just come in and let them know she’s here rather than lurk. Klaus waves his fingers. Diego’s eyes track to her. “Klaus says you fought a car.”

Diego snorts. “Right,” he says, tries to sit up again. Klaus just leans back, rolls his eyes. “I got a job done,” he says, looking like sitting up is taxing him enormously but doing it anyway. “No broken bones,” he says, but Allison doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart around, quick, as if to confirm that nobody refutes that.

“None whatsoever,” Klaus confirms. “Are you really going to try and get up right now?”

“What happened to my shirt?” Diego says, instead, looking down at himself. “Where’s my stuff?”

“In the trash, where you belong for heroically fighting a car,” Klaus emphasizes. “I thought you were going to end up haunting my ass.”

“No way,” Diego dismisses, not without a certain amount of arrogance, Allison thinks worriedly.

“You do look pretty banged up,” Allison reminds him.

“Well that’s what happens when you go out and do a real job instead of whatever you people do all day,” Diego snaps, and she wants to hit him, but she also gets it.

‘He’s always been nice to me’ Klaus had said. Allison wants to yell at them both.

“I guess you live to stab another day,” Klaus says, lightly, as Allison folds her arms and scowls. “Stop trying to get up, seriously.”

“I need to get my stuff,” Diego insists.

Jesus Christ.

“Fine,” Allison says. “I’ll help. Do you mean from the boxing place?”

“Yeah,” he says, not asking how she knows. He manages to make it off the bed, stands upright, does a couple of little stretches. It has to hurt, but he just grunts and tests his mobility before announcing, “if you’ve trashed my boots we’re gonna have words.”

“I’m not giving you anything with knives in,” Klaus says. “You can wear sneakers.”

Diego drives. He was unconscious not that long ago and now he’s driving. Allison can’t drive. She’s usually driven. She realizes a little late that this is the first time she’s been out of the house since the press break, but it’s too late and she told Diego she’d help. She has sunglasses. He seems to be dealing with his own shit. It’s fine.

The gym is noisy and open, dropped weights echoing around the room, the sounds of people hitting things, breathing hard, the noise a human makes hitting a mat coming from a corner. Allison leaves her aviators on, anxious. She’s never been so anxious about being recognized before.

“Diego!” Calls a voice. “Man! Hey!” It’s a guy in a boxing ring, leaning up against the ropes.

“What’s up,” Diego calls back, as they pass him, and he looks comfortable in here, Allison thinks. Something tense and what she’d thought of as unkind at the house, the place she’s seen him the most in the last decade or so – it’s gone. He looks kind of like he wants to go play on everything. Which is weird, she thinks, given that he still looks like he’s lethal, even in sweats proclaiming ‘SQUAT GOALS’ across the butt.

Allison doesn’t think he’s noticed. She can’t imagine a world where her sulky brother would just… not care about that.

“I need to get some time in with you, man,” the guy says. He barely looks at Allison. “Show me your yoda ways. Since I bust up my shoulder my left arm just hits like a girl.”

Phrases like that used to piss her off. As an adult, Allison’s used to it.

Diego pauses walking though, suddenly looks a bit like a cat – about to entertain himself. “Like a girl, huh?” He says, smirking.

“Accessory work? Man, I don’t know how you do it. You dislocated yours last October, right?”

“This is Allison,” Diego says, ignoring his response. “You should ask her.” He looks at her, wiggles his eyebrows. “Feel like getting in the ring?”

Allison pointedly looks down at her outfit, which involves heels.

The guy in the ring makes a sound, like, “pshh,” and when Allison looks at him, he says, “why’s your girlfriend wearing sunglasses, we too sweaty for her?”

Diego pulls such a disgusted face that Allison involuntarily laughs at him.

“Sister,” Diego says, and then looks a little surprised at her as she takes off her glasses.

The moment of recognition she expects never comes. The guy looks at her exactly like he did before.

“Alright,” she says, and steps in, tailored pants sweeping over the rope. “Left arm, you said?”

“I’m not hitting your sister,” the guy says, sounding nervous, annoyed and offended now.

“No it’s okay,” Allison says, relishing in Diego’s smirk. He puts the sunglasses on himself, folds his arms. It kind of feels like she’s got him in her corner. “I promise you’re not gonna hurt me,” she adds, adding a hint of a patronizing tone just for kicks.

He looks back at Diego, who raises his hand, like ‘go for it’.

“Okay,” he says, looks back at Allison. “You’re not gonna start crying at me if I ruin your hair?”

Allison does her best sunny smile. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

He comes at her with a tentative jab.

She dodges it easily, not showing off at all. “Put some effort into it,” she advises.

Okay. He jabs a couple more times, doesn’t come anywhere near her. “I’m serious,” Allison says, taps her own fist on his chest. As she makes contact he broadcasts the start of a hook. It’s got enough momentum about it that her reflexes kick in, and she counters it with a fist and a thumb on the tendons and simultaneously jabs him in the chin.

Possibly too hard, she thinks, whoops.

“Oh Ally,” Diego says. “You weren’t meant to go for the KO. Not straight away, anyway,” he mutters the addendum.

“He’s fine,” she pokes him with a heeled toe. “Look.” And he is, groaning and pulling himself up.

Allison leans down, offers a hand. He looks bewildered, takes it. Once he’s standing again, he looks between the two of them.

“Mobility first,” Allison tells him. “Your hook is stiff, you’re compensating for your shoulder with your obliques. Your traps are going to end up uneven if you don’t watch it.” The guy stares at her, then at Diego.

“Don’t say ‘hit like a girl’,” Diego advises, curtly, and just turns to walk in the direction of where she guesses his living space is, and she wants to squeal and run after him and jump on his back in glee because this has never happened to her, just one time having had someone at her back like this – and Diego, as well – it’s awesome.

She’s an actress though, so she knows she looks cool as a cucumber nodding amicably to the guy she just decked, casually leaving the ring to follow him.

Several people are looking over. She doesn’t care.

“Well hello there,” a guy with grey hair is suddenly in her path, and Diego is right in front of her saying,

“No,” firmly, before she can work out what’s going on.

“Sister, you said?” He calls, as Diego once again strides away.

“Don’t even think about it, Al,” Diego calls back, and she wants to know who that is, because he doesn’t sound anywhere near as mad as he had toward the other guy, but. Wow. There’s a lot she wants to know.

Instead of mentioning any of the last few bizarre minutes, Diego just opens the door marked ‘BOILER ROOM’ and seems to expect her to follow him down the stairs.

There are posters of his fights lining the walls. There’s also, conversely, some of Mom’s cross stitch. Allison recognizes the style but it’s nothing she recalls ever having seen when they were kids. Grace must have made it for him later on.

It makes her want to tear up, abruptly, and she can’t figure out why. She’s a mess.

He grabs some clothes. He starts pulling his borrowed shirt over his head when deciding to fight a car seems to catch up with him and he gives up almost immediately and starts shoving stuff in a bag instead.

“You here to help or just gawp at everything?” Her brother grumbles, and Allison realizes she’s just been staring at the walls.

“How long have you lived here?” She asks, surprising herself.

“Since… since Ben.”

Allison turns her head so fast she thinks she’s given herself whiplash.

“No shit,” she says, stuttery on the exhale. A thick layer of guilt starts to descend on her like a fog, and she can’t deal with it right now. Not this week. Not. Not now.

“No shower and it’s still better than the mansion,” he says, seriously, shoving a couple more things in a duffle and turning to leave. She looks at him, swallows. “What?” He asks, frowning.

“Nothing,” she tells him, after a beat too long of silence. She’s proud, she thinks. She can’t manage to find the words to tell him that. “You’re coming back to the Academy, right?”

“For now I guess,” he sighs, still eyeing her with suspicion all the same. “Just until I can get both arms over my head.”

“If you need help you just have to ask,” she tells him, upset for some reason she can’t describe. “I’d help.”

He looks confused. “Okay,” he tells her, and then carries his own bag back to the car and drives them both back to the Academy.

Allison rereads the tabloid entries that evening, tired from having been awake too long but weirdly wired and anxious. The house is quiet, until it suddenly isn’t.

Five looks over her shoulder and sighs heavily through his nose. “Thought I told you to stop reading that trash,” he says, having appeared out of nowhere and suddenly deciding to police her bed time literary choices.

“I can’t,” Allison admits. “I need to get it through my head somehow.”

“Get what through your head?” Five cocks his own, a small frown on his pointy little perfect face. Allison stares at him.

“I missed you so much,” she blurts, instead of what she meant to say, and they never talked about it, not this, not her and him, but God, did she ever.

“I missed you too,” he tells her, quiet. “I thought that would have been obvious.”

“Yeah,” Allison says, and turns away from the papers and tabloids and shit littering the table. She suddenly feels like a teenager; unsure and lost with an urgent need to forge forward anyway. “Five,” she says. “I never said thank you.”

“For what?” He blinks away in a flash of light, and he’s buried in a cupboard, grabbing crockery and not looking at her.

“Well for one you saved the world,” she tells him honestly. “But I think you also saved Vanya. And you saved all of us. And I don’t just mean from horrible deaths.”

“Well.” He just looks at the counter for a moment, and she realizes he’s holding a container meant for tea bags. He doesn’t drink tea. “It all worked out okay.”

“Are you?” She asks, then, and feels stupid as hell because how could he be? But she hasn’t asked, she doesn’t think. “Are you okay?”

“I have debilitating nightmares and every time I try to relax without a drink I end up checking the six main entrances to the house for signs of intrusion,” he says, casually. “My wife is gone and most of my life means nothing to the five people that mean the most to me.” He breathes out through his nose. “It’s okay though. We’re here. And to be honest, I mean. I’m not Luther. I’m amazed that it was only Ben.”

Allison wipes her eyes, realizes that she’s crying. Not a lot, just enough that – she can still cry.

It’s reassuring in a way she wouldn’t have expected.

“Poor Ben,” she says, looking at the table. “Poor, poor Ben.”

“Klaus says he’s fine. Not even that mad.”

The familiar hurt at hearing Klaus pretend – God though, is he? She doesn’t know any more. She saw Ben, is the trouble. But Klaus spent years and years lying about anything and everything, and the more important and emotionally explosive the more he lied. Allison learned to keep conversation light because it was safer that way. And Ben – they all hurt over it. They must.

And Klaus had seemed to hurt less.

Then again.

“Do I owe him an apology?” Allison murmurs.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really care,” Five says, and a cup of hot tea slides in front her, right under her nose. She looks up in surprise.

“Thank you?” She says.

“No problem. I’d take these and burn them but I’d rather you got there on your own,” Five says, gesturing at the tabloids.

“I think I’m going to ask Diego to set me up at that gym,” Allison tells him, and she wasn’t sure but - “I can hit stuff. It makes him feel better.”

“You two are weirdly similar sometimes,” Five says, looking a tad perturbed. And then he’s just gone, again, another flash of light.

Allison smiles at her tea involuntarily.

She feels a little better.

Also: They are not.

Diego sets her up at the gym. Allison hits things. Diego suggests taping a picture of Patrick to a punch bag and having at it. Allison doesn’t want to look at him. She definitely doesn’t want to hit him.

She does want to learn that flashy high roundhouse Diego keeps showing off with.

“If you trained your obliques more you could-”

“No,” she cuts him off. “If I ever do another movie I can’t have that build. I can build up body strength with yoga and pilates but anything around my lats has to stay small enough for sample wardrobe sizes.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Diego tells her, seriously.

“I know,” Allison agrees. “And I know, I know. Feminism. But I’m not that strong, okay? If I was I would never have run away to L.A. in the first place.”

“She admits it,” Diego says, holding the bag while Allison tries the kick again.

“Traps and lats don’t work with cute dresses.” Allison hits the bag particularly hard at that, smacks it a couple of times for good measure.

“And you’re so fine with that,” Diego quips.

“Shut up,” Allison says. “We all have issues.”

He’s quiet, then, just corrects her posture and form occasionally. Doesn’t tell her jack shit about extra training.

“Why don’t you get a proper apartment?” She asks Diego one afternoon, frowning. He’s done upstairs and headed to the showers and she kind of doesn’t get it. “I know you have the money, the inheritance alone would cover rent for the rest of your life if you didn’t want to buy something.”

He looks strangely hunted, all of a sudden. “Back off, Allison,” he says, and she thinks about it as he stalks away, everything about the place increasingly out of her understanding. She gives up, chases after him.

“I mean, it’s cool. Where you live. But Vanya can’t be the only overachiever here. I mean, have you been to her place? I love it,” she barrels on.

Diego just ignores her, looks pissed off.

If she follows him any further she’ll be in the men's changing room, so. Fine. Another day.

Strangely, it’s Klaus that makes her think of it again. She’s visiting Vanya and they’ve painted his toenails and each others toenails and Vanya has gone home because she has a home to go to. Klaus and Allison are sitting in the family room and Klaus has been increasingly agitated and she hasn’t been able to pinpoint why.

“God, it sucks here,” Klaus says, staring at the bar with a peculiar intensity. “You ever just want to leave?”

“Well, I did,” Allison says, confused, “if you feel like that why don’t you?”

“Oh,” Klaus waves an arm. “I don’t have the first clue how to set up a humane living space. I’d set myself on fire in a week.”

“Well where have you been the past ten years?” She frowns. “Luther said it was just him, here.”

“Oh, bless you,” Klaus kind of half giggles.

“I’m getting an apartment here,” Allison announces, next time she sees Diego. “I need to stop hiding. It’s got three bedrooms and it’s near the gym and if you wanted to split rent then you could have half.”

Diego frowns. “I don’t need you to mother me into having my own place.”

“That’s a really shitty thing to say and you know it,” she tells him. “I’m asking if you want to share. Luther wants to be at the Academy. So does Five. I want to be somewhere else. And it’s nearer to the gym.”

“How near?” He narrows his eyes.

“Fifteen minute walk,” she tells him. “There’s one bathroom but it’s got a bath and a shower.”

“What do I care about that?”

“You don’t. Klaus does.”

The three of them have their stuff packed and moved inside a day, with Luther and Five’s help.

“I’ll visit all the time,” she promises Luther, while Diego rolls his eyes and stalks off.

“It’s okay, I understand,” Luther tells her, because of course he does. God.

“I know,” she tells him, feeling almost giddy with affection. He’s not for her, though. He never should have been. “I need to be around some people who make me clean up my own mess for a change,” she teases, and he looks kind of sad but also like he’s not going to argue about that.

“Bye Luther!” Klaus yells, coming out of nowhere to jump on their brother. Luther catches him, pats his back awkwardly. “You’ve been the best, all things considered.” Strangely, Luther colors up at that. Allison doesn’t ask.

“Take care,” Luther tells them, as he and Five leave, perfectly content to go back to their childhood home. Allison surveys her new living space happily. There’s paint missing on one of the walls and the bathroom fan rattles.

Klaus says there are no random dead people and Diego has more space and a bathroom of his own.

Allison can’t wait to use a cooker.

She sucks at cooking. It’s not her fault.

They have money. They can get take out.

Diego and Allison split a cauliflower pizza. Klaus munches on chopped up red and yellow peppers, dragging them around in hummus. It’s practically… domestic.

“Guys,” Allison says, suddenly looking around. They both blink, mild alarm clouding their features in different ways. Diego’s eyes narrow, Klaus’ widen. She quickly says what she’s thinking, not enjoying that one bit. “We have an apartment. We’re like. Those people in the sitcoms.”

“Oh,” Klaus says, mouth full, staring around from where they’re sitting at the little kitchen table.

“Oh,” Diego says, frowning, looking down at himself.

“Should we,” Allison wracks her brain for things people have done on TV shows she’s watched. “Should we order cake and go meet the neighbors?”

“Uh,” Klaus stops chewing with something like mild alarm, and Diego looks flat out horrified.

“Okay,” she back pedals immediately, “maybe not.” She takes another slice of pizza. “Hey,” she tries again. “If uh. If I cut my hair like, really short one side and maybe buzz the other,” she kind of hopes they get what she means. “Um. Would that look cute or stupid? I mean. It would be easier to manage...”

“Oh my god, yes,” Klaus says, perking up immediately. “Can I come with you? You mean like an undercut or-?”

“Who cares, it’s hair,” Diego grumbles, previous horror forgotten.

Allison makes a mental note to drop by a salon.

“Can I get this,” she waves the copy at the guy on the news stand on her way home. Her head feels light. Maybe a little chilly on the shorn side. He ignores her a little more, and she fishes some change out of her pocket. “Keep it,” she says, putting down too much. ‘It’s my fucking face in the corner’, she wants to say, staring at the cover, but doesn’t.

It’s freeing.