"𝑁𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑏𝑎𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑠."
—𝑆𝑜𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝐴𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒

𝒟.

𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐀 finger over the cool metal of one of his throwing knives, his eyes shifting between the blade, the clock, and the door.

It was nearing eight o'clock, and he was sitting at the kitchen island, waiting for Natalia to come home.

As much as he had pouted and grumbled about it, Natalia had a dinner with a few colleagues (Diego was more than happy to find out that Dr. Parkinson had not been invited), and she told him that it'd be 'rude' and 'unprofessional' to cancel the day of (and, as much as he hated to admit it, he agreed).

She had promised she'd be home before eight. And now, Diego watched as the hour hand moved up to the eight.

He was being too picky. Of course, she couldn't control what time she'd come home. Maybe they were having a few drinks, or dessert. It was just after the middle of March, and it was beginning to be warm out, so maybe they were enjoying the outdoors.

But when the hour hand reached the nine, Diego grew worried.

Was she okay? Had she gotten hurt? Kidnapped? In a crash? Murdered? The possibilities were endless, and Diego didn't want to think of any of them.

He was growing impatient and nervous. His foot tapped against the footrest of the stool, and he had somehow managed to cut himself in several places, though they were just grazes that he didn't care about.

He chewed on his lower lip when the hour hand got to the ten. Natalia was never one to be late. And she would've called if she was, right?

He got up, tucking his knife into his pocket and grabbing his keys.

He was pretty sure he knew the name of the restaurant they had gone to. It was some Italian place, with an Italian name which he now realized he had no clue was.

He cursed under his breath. Whatever. It was probably close, right? If he drove around long enough, he'd find it.

He patted his pockets, noting that he had three knives in total. That'd be enough.

He headed to the door, and just as he reached for the handle, it twisted itself, and the door swung open.

"Oh!" Natalia exclaimed in surprise as she saw that Diego was just a step away.

"Jesus Christ, Natalia," he groaned, feeling his heart pace flutter back to normal. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Sorry, they all got super drunk so I had to drive them all home," she said with a small laugh. Her eyebrows furrowed as he sighed and massaged his temples. "What, were you worried?"

"Yes!"

She shook her head as she took her purse off and rested it on the kitchen island. "Why?"

"You're home more than two hours later than you said you'd be," he pointed out, gesturing to the clock.

"Sorry, darling," she sighed as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "The time slipped my mind. I'll make it up to you."

A smirk appeared on his face. "Oh, will you?"

"Not tonight," she chided, her lips curving into a lazy smile as she wagged a finger. "I'm way too tired. Work plus dealing with five drunk women is impossibly tiring, did you know?"

"So what," he questioned as she brushed past him, "you going to bed now?"

"I think so," she answered, rubbing her eyes and leaving some of her makeup smudged. "I'm sorry if you wanted to do anything."

"No, it's fine, princess," he reassured her. "We always have tomorrow."

"Mhm." She nodded. "You can go do your street thing, if you want."

"Yeah, I'll tuck you into bed first."

An amused smile appeared on her lips as he followed her into the bedroom. "Oh, am I a child now?"

"I've found you passed out on the carpet and the couch before," he pointed out as she went to the closet to grab her pyjamas, "I wanna make sure you get into bed this time."

She smiled, nodding before giving him a light kiss and murmuring, "Okay."

Diego sat on the edge of the bed as she stepped into the bathroom, and he ran a hand through his hair before sighing as he heard the shower turn on. That woman had just nearly given him a heart attack.

Sure, it was only two hours and some, but this was New York. And she was a gorgeous woman. And, yes, she had powers, but a man still worried . . .

Diego got to his feet as soon as his breathing had steadied and his heart rate had normalized. He walked over to the closet and grabbed his chest gear, and took his time putting it on; Natalia liked to shower for a rather long time, and that time only increased when she was drowsy and moved sluggishly.

He grabbed his gloves and mask, though he didn't bother to put them on and instead shoved them into his pocket.

He was ready to go by the time Natalia had reentered the bedroom, her hair still a little damp and her eyes half-closed.

Diego chuckled, placing a hand on her back and gently guiding her toward the bed. He pulled the blanket back, waited for her to crawl her way in, and then pulled it back over her.

He planted a kiss on her forehead as she settled her head on the pillow. "Goodnight, princess."

"Goodnight, sweetie," she murmured, though her speech was a little slurred. "Be safe. Don't die."

He chuckled. "I'll try my best."

After gently kissing her lips, Diego straightened up and turned the lights off before leaving the room.

He grabbed his car keys and made sure that all the lights were off before leaving the apartment, and he locked the door behind him.

As soon as he had gotten into the driver's seat, he pulled his mask and tugged his gloves on. He then turned the key so that the engine ignited and drove out of the parking lot.

He slowed down his car as he entered a neighbourhood, and felt a sense of victory as he immediately spotted movement: a group of hooded men prying a door open.

Bingo.

He parked the car on the side of the street before quietly exiting.

He snuck his way over to the door, relishing in yet another success as he noticed that the door was made of frosted glass.

As quietly and discreetly as possible, Diego pressed his back just next to the door and peered through to see a couple of men pushing another man—a hostage—into a different room.

He knew he wouldn't be able to go through the front door without drawing unneeded attention to himself, so instead, he headed around towards the back of the house.

He grabbed one of his smaller knives and used it to pick the lock, and he winced as the door slightly creaked when he pushed it open.

He could hear muffled sobs coming from the front of the house—the hostages, which sounded like a family of varying ages—along with shouts from the robbers, clinks of glass as they shoved trinkets into their bags, and the voice of the weatherman on the TV.

Diego peered around to the front of the house and saw an unknowing man coming in his direction, so he took his chance.

He rushed up to him and grabbed him by the neck, pulling him towards him and kneeing him before snapping his neck. He let the body thud to the floor before glancing to his left to see the four hostages—two parents, one son, and a grandmother—bound and gagged.

He had no time to reassure them, however, as he took notice of the three robbers in the room to his right, and so he moved his attention there as he stepped towards them.

The nearest robber came at him, a flashlight in one hand and a threatening gun in the other. As the robber made to hit him, Diego immediately punched him in the face before giving him a backhand, causing the gun to go flying to the side.

"Who is this guy?" shouted one of the robbers as Diego flipped the first one onto the glass coffee table, shattering it.

He ducked as one of the robbers threw a vase at him, and he heard it break as it collided with the wall behind him.

Still crouched on the ground, Diego used his left hand to keep him steady while unsheathing a knife with his right. He threw the blade to the robber in front of him, and it impaled his arm, sticking him to the wall and drawing a scream out of him.

Diego grabbed onto the first robber's arm and got to his feet. He sensed that the only robber left was coming up behind him, and threw a back kick in his direction, sending him flying back, before elbowing the arm he was holding onto.

As the first robber gave a shout, Diego grabbed his collar and threw him into the wall. The robber grunted as he hit a few framed portraits and dropped to the ground.

Diego let out a short breath as he examined the room around him. The two robbers remained unmoving, and the one he had impaled was also now on the ground, the bloodied knife resting on the ground; he had tried to free himself, though that clearly had worked out badly.

Diego picked the knife up and sheathed it as he told the whimpering family, "Your family is safe now."

He was about to leave when he heard the fanfare from the TV in the room just next to the living room.

His curiosity got the best of him, and he turned around and walked through the wide archway, peering at the TV, whose bright colours contrasted the darkness around him.

"We're going now live to a breaking story."

Diego's eyes widened as he realized what was going on.

He needed to get home. Now.

He rushed over to the family, quickly undoing their bonds and taking the tape off their mouths. He muttered for them to call the police before getting out of the house, and he sprinted towards his car.

As soon as he was in the driver's seat, he twisted the key and started the car. He slammed his foot against the gas pedal, and, yes, drove dangerously over the speed limit as he made his way back to the apartment building.

He made a hasty job of parking, though he still managed to fit the car in between the yellow lines, and he jumped out. He raced his way in, jabbed the elevator button, and shoved himself inside once the doors had opened.

Though he wanted to be sure to not wake his neighbours up, Diego couldn't help but run down the hallway, hoping his footsteps weren't as loud and heavy as he felt they were.

Diego fished his keys out of his pocket, though his hands were trembling so much and he was in such a panic that it took several attempts for the key to actually insert into the lock.

"Nat!"

He slapped the lights on as soon as he entered and closed the door a little harder than he meant to, though he paid no attention to that as he tossed his keys to the side and ripped his mask off.

"Natalia! Wake up!"

He sprinted into the bedroom and turned the lights on to meet a disgruntled Natalia, who seemed to have just woken up from his outburst.

"What's wrong?" she asked groggily, though it seemed as though she knew an emergency had risen. "Are you hurt? Did you get shot?"

"No," he breathed out, rushing towards her and pulling her out of bed. "The news."

"The news?" she questioned, though she didn't ask any further as he grabbed her hand and dragged her out to the living room.

Diego grabbed the remote that had been sitting on the coffee table and turned on the TV. He had to flip through a few channels before finding the local news and swallowed as the picture of Reginald and the headline reappeared for their replay of the news.

He turned to Natalia, who seemed to be more than awake now. Her eyes were wide and glassy as they read the headline over and over, and a small gasp escaped her as she covered her mouth with her hand.

"Diego," she whispered, her voice thick with shock. "This can't be true, can it?"

"I mean, it's the news, honey," he said gently, taking a step towards her and tentatively wrapping an arm around her waist. "It has to be."

"He's dead?"

"He is."

"Why didn't anyone call? Pogo or Grace?" she questioned as she turned to him. She grabbed the remote from his hand and shut the TV off. "He must've died before tonight—there's no way the news would've found out night of. Why didn't Pogo or Grace call?"

"They're probably processing it," Diego reasoned. "And the police were probably involved, so they would've been busy with that."

"Right . . ." Natalia sighed as she sat on the edge of the couch and began to massage her temples.

"You okay, babe?" Diego asked as he sat down next to her.

"I think I should be asking you that," she chuckled humourlessly as she turned to him, and Diego found himself a little surprised to see tears in her eyes. "He was your father."

Diego shrugged. "I'm shocked. Surprised, even; for some reason, I always thought he'd be immortal or something. Thank God he wasn't."

"Diego."

"I'm just sayin'," he sighed. "I'm not happy about it. But . . . I'm not all too sure that I'm sad."

"He's still your father," she pointed out with raised eyebrows. "He raised you."

"No. Mom raised me. Pogo raised me. He did jack shit," Diego said, a little harsher than he wanted to. His eyebrows furrowed as he watched her sigh and rub her eyes. "How come you're sad? You've always agreed that you hated him."

"That's true, don't worry. He was never the father I dreamt of having," she reassured him before leaning back on the couch. "But still . . . he was a lot better than my real father. He took me in, accepted me for who I am—though I guess my powers were why he took me in—and he taught me how to control my energy. I still have a little gratitude."

Diego bit his lower lip. He had never really asked about her parents; he had always figured it might be a sore subject.

Gently, he questioned, "How was he?"

"Who?"

"Your real father?" he clarified. A thought occurred, and, tentatively, he asked, "Did he . . . hurt you?"

"No," Natalia immediately reassured him with a shake of the head, causing him to sigh in relief. "He was—both he and my mother were too afraid to even come near me. They didn't talk to me, they didn't interact with me, they didn't let me leave my room unless it was to go to the bathroom or kitchen . . . I don't even remember what their voices sound like, much less their faces." She let out a small scoff, and Diego's lips tugged into a frown.

"I'm sorry." He sighed. "Must've been horrible."

"I barely even remember it," she said as she shrugged. "But you can imagine why I'm a little sad that Reginald is dead."

Diego attempted a half-smile. "Doesn't take away the fact that he was a shit father."

She nodded solemnly. "He was."

He sighed before gesturing towards the black TV. "Do you think the others have seen?"

Realization seemed to hit her. "I should call them."

She stretched a hand towards the home phone, and only a second later did both her hand and the phone shroud with the shade of magenta Diego had grown so fond of.

Once the phone was in her hand, she dialled a number and lifted it to her ear. She sighed a few moments later and mouthed, "Voicemail" to him.

"Hey, Vanya," she greeted once a loud beep came from the speaker, "I know it's late but . . . have you seen the news? Call me back whenever you can. Love you."

Diego watched with a frown as she groaned and dialled a new number.

She lifted it to her ear, waited a few seconds, and then shut her eyes as she mouthed, "Voicemail" once more.

"Hi, Alli. I was just calling to ask if you've seen the news, call me whenever you can. Love you. Bye."

"Klaus is in rehab and Luther's on the Moon," Diego pointed out with an amused smile, "so nothing you can do for them."

"Oh, God, Luther." Her eyes widened as she magicked the phone back to the charger. "Do you think—"

"I'm sure they have some kind of communication with him," he reassured her. He got to his feet and offered a hand. "C'mon, angel, let's get to bed."

She took his hand, though her eyebrows were furrowed as they walked back to the bedroom. "You're not gonna go back out? You've only been gone half an hour."

"No," he sighed, "I think I'll spend the rest of the night home."

"Okay." She nodded. "But you need to shower."

He gave her a salute. "Yes, ma'am."

Diego braved a smile before letting it drop as he grabbed his pyjamas and turned towards the bathroom.

Was he upset? No. Did that make him feel guilty? A little.

But how the hell was he supposed to be sad that a man who had ruined almost every aspect of his life had died? How?

He was more than sure that his siblings felt the same way he did. Well . . . maybe not Luther. But Klaus, Allison, and Vanya, for sure—especially Vanya.

Diego let his thoughts consume his mind just as the hot water did his body.

His father was never one for love or even emotion, at that. He never bid them goodnight, he never once told them he loved them, and the only thing Diego had left that house with was trauma. Of course Diego wouldn't feel the slightest bit of sadness.

What was there to be sad about? That this man no longer had the ability to make his stutter return? That this man could no longer profit off of all of their merchandise and interviews? That this man no longer breathed the fresh air that he didn't deserve?

Sure, Diego hadn't once spoken to him since his departure from the Academy, but the horrid memories and trauma were buried deep, and the prickling on the back of his neck that warned someone was watching, or the sudden urge to straighten his posture, or the over-the-top, unhealthy desire to be number one in anything and everything never left him.

So no, he wasn't sad, Diego decided as he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. And no, he wasn't happy. He was neutral. He didn't care (well . . . he was a little happy).

Once he had dried himself off and put his pyjamas on, he turned the lights off and entered the bedroom.

A smile came onto his face as Natalia beckoned him over and kissed his cheek as he climbed onto the bed.

So maybe one good thing had resulted from Reginald's schemes.

"When do you think the funeral will be?" Natalia murmured as Diego switched the lamp off.

"Sometime soon, probably," he sighed as he wrapped an arm around her.

"Well . . ." she mumbled as she settled into his embrace, "at least the family will be together again."

His eyebrows raised. "That's not something I'm looking forward to."