Work Text:
A breath in, a breath out.
The training room was dark - in your mind’s eye, the whole house was, as if sunlight had to fight its way in - the wooden walls surrounding you creating an oppressive barrier. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. In cold sweat, you wipe your clammy hands clumsily on the fabric of your plaid skirt, trying to steel yourself in front of father and Pogo. Showing weakness was not an option, you’ve learned.
Diego wasn’t faring any better. You could see him swallowing hard, a few feet away from you, on the other side of the room. The hand that wasn’t holding one of his many throwing knives was shaking, which he tried to stop by clenching his fist repeatedly.
Without looking up from his notes, father asked “Are you ready, Number Two?”
A beat, an encouraging look from Pogo. “Y-… Yes.”
“Number Eight?”
“Yes.”
It was a routine test, just like the many others you did, daily. This wasn’t the first time you did it - you’ve been doing different versions of the same training ever since Diego’s abilities revealed themselves when you were children - but it could always be the last.
“You know what to do, then.”
You watch Diego aim, and freeze. He closed his eyes, concentrating, and when he opened them again, uncertainty was clear in his features. You knew he hated this even more than you did - his aim never failed, even if he tried, so if anything went south… well, he’d never forgive himself.
“Hurry, Number Two.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” You said, looking into his worried face and knowing this was an exercise on trust. Trust on both of your abilities, on yourselves, and on each other. And there was no one else in the world you trusted more than Diego.
A breath in, a breath out.
It only took a second.
Fast as a bullet, a silver flash of a knife came flying at you. As soon as it was out of Diego’s hand, you reached inside yourself, quickly stripping away of your tangible self, melting away in the air. The knife zoomed past you, straight through the middle of where your chest was, a moment ago, and lodged itself into the wall behind you.
You inhale, becoming visible again. Diego exhales in relief, giving you a hesitant smile.
As Pogo went to retrieve the knife stuck to the wall, father simply said “Again.”
“Y/N?”
In the present, Diego’s voice brings you back to the moment. Luther is manning the stove, the whole apartment smells like scrambled eggs, while you and Diego sit at the small table - while he throws his knife in the air, catching it again and again, the image makes you fall into reminiscence.
“Yeah?” You shift your gaze to his face, a soft grin unconsciously taking over your face - that’s been happening a lot lately.
“You went somewhere.” He noted.
You chuckle to yourself, already imagining his reaction to what you’re about to say. “Do you think I can still dodge your knives and not die in the process?”
As you predicted, Diego dropped his knife loudly at the table, looking at you as if you suddenly grew another head. “Seriously? I’m not pointing another knife at you ever again.” He dismissed your question vehemently. “Still have nightmares about it.”
Your musing didn’t sound so funny anymore after his mumbled confession. You reach for his hand over the table, covering it with your smaller one and holding it loosely. “Sorry. I was just… remembering, I think.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Luther’s voice cuts in.
The two of you share a knowing look. Part of you doesn’t want to share, those moments in the training room were some form of twisted bonding moments between you, something that brought you closer together - something only you understood. Still, there were secrets enough in this family.
“Where do I begin?”