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.
Diego plans on slipping into her apartment, putting the pepper spray in her purse, and making a quick getaway. He tells himself that it is just good sense. That she should have some kind of protection if she insists on continuing to go on the seemingly endless string of blind dates set up by Allison. While he has done careful background checks on each and every one of the men she has gone out with and, to his disappointment, found only four parking tickets between them, a person can never be too careful.
His plan goes off the rails when she hears him in the entranceway.
"How do I look?" Vanya asks, turning in a slow circle.
"You look pretty," he says, his throat growing dry. He internally curses the man who gets to see her in that dress and those heels and gets to kiss her and, God forbid, maybe do more than kiss her.
She smiles at him shyly.
"Thanks, Diego. The last two guys only gave me, like, hugs a person would give their grandma. I've been worried this whole time that I look weird."
He shakes his head.
"Nope, not weird."
Beautiful, he thinks to himself.
He tells himself it will end there. He makes this promise to himself each step of the way, as he follows her to the restaurant at a safe distance, just to make sure she makes it okay, and as he watches her date, whom he hates on sight, give her a chaste kiss on the cheek.
He realizes, as he sits on the couch in her apartment, waiting for her to get home, that he has been lying to himself.
So he tries a new tactic.
"Not yours," he reminds himself, as relief floods his chest when she returns home early.
"Not yours," he repeats to himself as she tells him all about how this evening's date, a man named 'Todd,' an accountant who speaks three languages and has a wine cellar, bailed on her before dessert with a bullshit excuse about his dog being sick.
"Not yours, not yours, not yours." He puts this on repeat in his head and hopes it will give him the strength to walk out the door.
In the end, it is not enough. Not compared to the moment when she slips out of her heels and stands in front of him, all five foot nothing of her compared to his six feet, and asks him what is wrong with her. Why doesn't anyone want her?
"Just once."
He tells himself this as he leans down, picks her up, and sets her on the kitchen counter, gently sliding her skirt up, pushing her panties aside, and doing things with his fingers that make her shake and moan. He reminds himself over and over again as he whispers dirty things in her ear and makes her whimper.
He repeats it like a mantra and a prayer as she takes his hand, leading him to her bedroom, and returns the favor.
He reminds himself he is a man on borrowed time. That this is a one-time thing. That tomorrow could be the day she finds Mr. Right, the kind of man who has a desk job and plays golf on weekends. That she deserves better than a man who is broken down and scarred.
In spite of his best efforts, he sometimes catches his inner voice saying the most dangerous word. It sneaks up on him, when she laughs at something he has said or pounces on him when he comes to her door in the middle of the night because he can't be away from her for one more minute. It burrows into his brain when he makes her moan his name and when she falls asleep snuggled against his chest. Sometimes, in his weak moments, he even lets himself believe it.
"Mine."