DISCLAIMER: I do not own, or claim to own, in any way, The Umbrella Academy characters, etc. I am not profiting off this story. It is simply for my enjoyment and that of the readers. Please do not sue me.
He was never really mad about the book – not really. She had simply put into words what he, himself, had felt for years. They had a screwed up father who had given them an even more screwed up childhood. That was why, when he found himself two blocks from her apartment, cut in what felt like a million places and bruised in a couple million more, he didn't hesitate.
He could tell she had been in the middle of cooking herself dinner. Knowing Vanya, he thought, this was probably soup from a can. He was gratified to see that he was right about this as she ushered him into her kitchen and sat him down on a chair, rummaging around in the cupboard for bandages and antibacterial ointment.
"What happened?" she asked, as she reached into the freezer for an ice pack for his swollen, split lip.
"Home invasion. Three guys. I took the first two out with no problem, but the third one got a little feisty with me," he said, smirking and then wincing.
"You need to stop doing this, Diego," she said, her eyes filled with worry.
"Be careful, sis," he said, looking up at her. "I might start to think that you actually care."
She pursed her lips and approached the chair, but hesitated, clearly unsure of how to position herself to best access his myriad injuries.
Gently, he pulled her down onto his lap, resting his hands comfortably on her hips so she wouldn't topple out of the chair.
She dabbed some of the antibacterial ointment on his face, trying to cover most of his cuts.
"You're going to be scars all over one day, you know that, right?"
"Chicks dig scars," he said, flashing her that same grin.
She shot him a look before capping the tube of ointment, handing it to him, and sliding off his lap.
"I'll let you do the rest while I put on another can of soup," she said, starting to turn. He caught her hand and pulled her back down, missing the weight of her on his legs.
"Please?" he asked, shooting her puppy-dog eyes and offering the tube back to her.
She sighed and settled herself back onto his lap.
"Pop off your shirt. I can't wait to see what damage is under there," she said, sarcastically.
He slid his shirt over his head and her breath hitched.
"Wow."
"That bad, huh?"
"You're going to get yourself killed one of these days."
"And you'll miss me?" he asked, growing serious.
"Of course I'll miss you, you jerk," she said softly, not looking him in the eye.
He placed a hand under her chin gently, lifting her head to meet his gaze.
"I'd miss you, too."
She smiled softly and lowered her head again to continuing working on his injuries.
He sat silently, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her just a little tighter.
Finally, seemingly satisfied with the job she had done, she looked up at him.
"How's that lip?" she asked.
"It's felt better," he said.
"Here – I'll put a little on there. It won't make it feel better, but it'll keep it from getting infected, at least."
She applied the ointment to the tip of her finger and gently rubbed it against his lower lip.
He moaned softly, his eyes closing briefly. He knew that she could tell from her position on his lap that the reaction had not been one entirely of pain.
"There," she said, smiling tightly and sliding off the chair. "All set."
She crossed the room to the cupboard and put the tube of ointment away, gave the soup a quick stir, and turned back, clearly expecting him to still be seated on the chair, instead of standing directly behind her.
He gently pushed her back against the counter, hands sliding to her low hips, and bent his head to brush his lips against hers. The ten seconds that it took her to kiss him back felt, to him at least, like an eternity.
She slid her hand behind his head, pulling him down to her mouth as their bodies molded together against the counter.
He would tell himself- much later- that what happened next was just a mistake. A combination of adrenaline, loneliness, and pure bodily need. But he knew, in his worst moments, when the fighting and drinking couldn't dull him enough to ignore it, that what happened next was inevitable, as inevitable as him going to her apartment at 1:00 in the morning and as inevitable as the way her sweet, shy smile had made his heart tighten in his chest for the past 17 years.
When he woke the next morning and reached his arms out for her, he found only empty bed. Once his eyes had focused, he saw her sitting at the end of the bed, gazing out the window.
"Come back to bed, baby."
He had never been one for endearments, but this one felt right on his tongue.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"This was a mistake."
His heart sank in his chest. It certainly hadn't felt like a mistake to him, at least not in that moment anyway.
"It wasn't," he said firmly.
"It was. They'll never understand. Dad will never understand."
"Never understand? Luther and Allison have been crazy about each other since we were five. If anything, it'll be one of our less ridiculous secrets."
She shook her head firmly. He knew Vanya was a stubborn woman, quiet as though she was, but he had never realized exactly how stubborn. No matter how much he tried to persuade her, she would not be moved.
He ended up standing outside her apartment door, stunned, refusing to move for at least twenty minutes, telling himself that she would change her mind. But the door stayed shut.
He called everyday for weeks. She wouldn't pick up the phone.
He left messages. He begged. He sent flowers. He even asked Eudora what he should do. She had no easy answers for him.
In the end, he did the only thing he could do. He fought and drank and slept around, trying to outrun the truth, telling himself that it would pass. Telling himself that, eventually, he wouldn't see her face every time he picked up the bottle or stepped into the ring, or woke up next to someone new.
Now, when he brushes past her and callously sneers, "You shouldn't be here. Not after what you did," it's not because he wants to hurt her. It's because he hopes that the more he says it, the more it will drown out the small, sure and steady voice in the back of his head that says, "I love you."